


Once Upon a Dream

by Aate



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Child witches and wizards - Freeform, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreamsharing, Follows Percival's life since childhood, Hurt Original Percival Graves, M/M, Nightmares, Original Character Death(s), The Graves Family - Freeform, abusive teacher
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-04-04 02:33:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14010264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aate/pseuds/Aate
Summary: There was a boy called Newt in his dreams.Percival's life from childhood to later years as it could have been had he shared his dreams with one certain English boy.*****Please do not save my fics on fanfics.me. I don't want them saved there.





	1. The Monster

He was drowning.

He had been playing too close to the water again against all of mom's warnings and he had slipped on the deck like she had said he might, and he had fallen into the water, and now he was drowning, and if he died, mom and dad would be so angry with him they wouldn't let him have sweets _for weeks_ , and they would be sad too, and Percival wanted them to be neither sad nor angry, and so it would really be for the best if he didn't drown.

Again, Percival tried to reach for the sky, for the Sun, and wiggled as hard as he could, trying to go UP, but the wiggling didn't help and the reaching didn't get air into his lungs or his body above water. The Sun was shining bright above through the sparkling water and it was the most frustrating sight Percival had seen in all of his five years – to have it so close but still not able to feel it on his skin.

The afternoon at the Graves manor had been peaceful. Grandmother had been sitting quietly on a deck chair and she must have seen his fall, but as the brightness of the Sun slowly began to fade away as water forced its way into his nostrils, into his mouth, so did his hope for Grandmother coming to his rescue. She had probably gone back to reading _The West Coast Incantation_ , he knew, and as the brightness of the Sun faded away, he coughed and the water saw its chance and flooded into him like he was but a bucket to be filled. It tasted like salt, but Percival barely noticed it from his growing fear – he didn't like the roaring in his ears, he hated the darkness, and most of all, _he did not want to drown_.

 _"I can't die before I turn six and learn how to swim! "_ was his thought, and then he thought desperately of the person who most represented safety and love and warmth and cucumber sandwiches and hot chocolate and all the other good things he knew, _"MOMMY!"_

And before he knew it, he could suddenly feel magic flowing through his body. The thought of his mother was enough to get his magic flowing, and the flow of magic was like breathing, and suddenly there was air in his lungs as well and he could breathe again, underwater though he still was.

Cautiously, Percival breathed in and out, several times, to calm himself down, and gradually the Sun became brighter once more and he could again see clearly. Proud of not having died, he then sat down on a smooth rock on the bottom of the ocean, crossing his arms on his chest, sulking a little because that was what dad always did when he came home from work wounded and "on sick leave". Percival had by now understood sulking was what good aurors were supposed to do when they had almost died, and since he wanted to become a good auror like mom and dad and Uncle Charles when he grew up, he now sulked for a good while until it got boring.

Now that he was no longer drowning – and had sulked dutifully for such a long time it had to have been at least _a whole minute_ if not two – it was actually rather interesting to see the sea from this angle, from the point of view of a fish. He had just learnt about whales from his private tutor, Mr. Cunningham, and it was thrilling to think he could now tell Mr. Cunningham what it was like for whales under water. Adaptable like only a child could be, Percival was quick to forget he had just almost drowned and instead studied his surroundings, curious and eager, taking in the smooth rocks and the slowly swaying seaweed, staying still so some of the tiny silvery fish dared to swim closer. He thought of whales and soon he imagined he was a whale child who lived under their deck.

He sat there, playing a whale, up until his shoulder was unexpectedly grasped in a painfully tight grip and he was hoisted unceremoniously out of the water. It was noisy above water, mom was screaming, and his wet clothes felt suddenly cold on him. Dad was holding him tightly by the arms, shaking him, asking questions and repeating his name, frantically, like he had expected to pull a corpse out of the water rather than a living, breathing boy, and then mom was there too, hugging him, shaking, weeping, thanking Merlin and the stars.

Grandmother turned a page on her magazine, Percival saw from her parents' embrace, not sparing Percival even a look even though her wrinkled up nose told of her displeasure over the way Percival hadn't yet perished.

* * *

If it hadn’t been so terribly disrespectful, Percival would have later asked Grandmother why she hated him so. As it was, after the day he almost drowned, the question was always burning on his tongue, demanding to be voiced, but since disrespect was not allowed in the Dutiful and Honorable House of Graves, he usually knew better than to give in to the urge and chose therefore to remain silent. Only once did he ask the question, at the age of six, muddled with fever, half dead with an aggressive case of dragon pox, tears burning on his eyes like the question was on his tongue.

He might not have asked it, likely wouldn’t have, if Grandmother had not been the one to sit by his bed when he startled awake from his feverish nightmares only half lucid. But it _had_ been his grandmother sitting by his bed, stiff and visibly uncomfortable – not there by his side because he cared for Percival, Percival had known that even then, but to give his worried parents a moment to rest – and the question had slipped out before he had even realized he had opened his mouth to speak.

“Why do you hate me so, Grandmother?”

Even only half lucid as he was, he never forgot the cool look his grandmother gave him then, nor the way she held her red wand as if she was contemplating on using it on him. (To aid his death, not to heal, never to heal, not him.) Her answer, when it eventually came, he never forgot either.

“Because when you grow up,” her croaky voice held not an ounce of sympathy, “you will become a monster. I have seen it, and even now my contempt for you is greater than my love ever could be.”

Grandmother was a seer, a good one, and what she said she saw, that _would_ one day become. That was why resignation, more so than any other feeling, settled in the bottom of Percival’s belly as he laid there on his sick bed in the shadow of his imposingly tall grandmother.

“A monster." He thought about it. "Will I get bitten by a vampire then? Or by a w-werewolf?”

Grandmother’s hold on her wand tightened. A storm was gathering behind her brown eyes, so similar to those of Percival’s own.

“Neither,” she spat out. “You will become something far worse than a beast: you will become a dark wizard, the kind against which all the Graves – myself included – have spent generations fighting, and that is the worse fate because you will _choose_ to give in to darkness, you will _choose_ to feed it; as it will be, you will _enjoy_ it. You will betray MACUSA, you will threaten the entire wizarding kind, you _will_ wish to expose us to no-majs. You will even send innocents to be executed without a trial. I have seen it all, it _will_ all come to pass.”

It was a horrible future she was describing. Percival could feel the tears finally spilling over, and grandmother sneered at him, looking away in visible disgust.

“Cry all you like, little monster. You disgust me, and I'm ashamed we share blood. You deserve to feel pain for what you will do, believe me.”

“I don’t want to grow up to be a d-dark wizard!” Percival insisted as tears rolled down his childishly round cheeks. The mere thought pained his heart – he had always admired mom and dad and Uncle Charles and the other aurors above all else, he couldn’t imagine a future where he betrayed them and the whole MACUSA. If he would do all Grandmother had seen him do, then he certainly deserved a severe punishment. “Perhaps it would be for the best if I now died of dragon pox.”

“It would be for the best,” agreed grandmother, considering the wand in her hand. “So don’t fight the sickness needlessly. Do the one decent thing you’re capable of – just give in to death and the world will be better for it. No need to fight death like you did when you almost drowned.”

* * *

As it happened, Percival didn’t die of dragon pox, mostly because his parents and the healers wouldn’t let him. His parents wouldn’t hear a word Grandmother said either – they insisted that for once she had been mistaken, that she hadn’t seen the entire truth of the matter.

“My son is not a dark wizard,” mom would declare and position herself between Percival and Grandmother’s pointed wand. “He is not one now and he will never become one. Dark wizards are my speciality, I recognize one when I see one, and Percival simply does not have the makings of becoming one. He is too honorable, too dutiful – a true Graves, like his father.”

“Percival has a heart of gold,” dad would agree. “He will fight the darkness, not join it. I don’t need to be a seer to know my boy, and darkness is not for him, will never be. Mother, you have been mistaken.”

Brown like all the Graves’, Grandmother’s eyes were piercing, her lips downturned, before she looked pointedly away and lowered her wand.

“We shall see.”

“I will do my best to not give in to the darkness,” Percival promised softly from where he was sitting surrounded by his dueling tin aurors, but Grandmother didn’t acknowledge him. She rarely did and he was so used to it he didn’t much mind. She despised him, but at least she never lied to him - he appreciated that.

* * *

Almost a full year after Percival had fully recovered from dragon pox, Grandmother was poisoned. It was down to one vengeful criminal or another – Grandmother had many enemies after the six decades she had worked as a highly regarded Senior Auror – and somehow they had managed to slip the poisonous herb in her evening gin. No-one told Percival details, but dad did emphasize they had caught the crook, that Percival didn’t need to be afraid.

Despite of his father’s assurances, Percival was afraid. Not for his own sake, of course, but for his grandmother’s – he didn’t want her to die and the possibility she might die was frightening to him. Percival didn’t know what happened to people after they died and no-one in his family had died before. In fact, Percival hadn’t encountered death before and having to face it now scared him quite a lot. Besides, Grandmother might have hated him, but he was still determined to love her. She was his grandmother, after all, and it was a grandson’s duty to love his grandmother.

“Grandmother wants to see you, darling,” mom told him that evening, dark circles under her sky blue eyes as she gave him a tired smile. “You need to go to her.”

Percival did not want to go. He did not want to hear Grandmother cursing his name, did not want to hear her saying in her last breath he would one day betray all he held dear.

He didn’t want to see the death approaching her.

“Must I?”

“Yes,” was mom’s simple answer. “Now, darling. She hasn’t got much time left.”

“Come, Percival.”

Dad took a hold of his hand, and Percival followed, reluctant but obedient, snatching his favorite tin auror from the floor to guard his back. Senior Auror Boomstick would protect him even from death. He had once chased a wasp out of Percival’s bedroom, after all, and he was the shiniest of all the eight tin aurors.

* * *

Usually, Percival wasn't allowed to go into Grandmother's bedroom, as Grandmother didn't want him there - not that he would have wanted to go there anyway, dark and imposing as the bedroom was. The walls were dark, the curtains were heavy and so dark blue they could have as well been black. The paintings in her bedroom were frowning and only ever said judgemental things like, "You are too lively to ever become a respectable member of the Graves family, boy," and "Child, you smile too much."

Now, lying in her four poster bed, Grandmother only had moments left, it was clear to see. Her thin face had become gaunt like a skull, her skin was grey and her breath came in short, raspy gasps. Seeing this, sad, Percival would have actually preferred her harsh and stern and angry – like _herself_ , not as this shadow.

Dad pushed him gently forward and Percival, prompted by the push, approached the bed cautiously, his chin giving a wobble. The air in the room was heavy, it was difficult to breathe it in.

When he was standing by the bed, Grandmother blinked her eyes open. They were waxy, not at all sharp like usual.

“Percival,” her voice was weaker than Percival had ever heard it before. “Oh, little one. I have been so, so wrong. Can you ever forgive me? Although I suppose forgiveness doesn’t matter, not now when I have so little time left to make amends.”

She coughed weakly, reaching out a hand to grasp his wrist. Senior Auror Broomstick instantly raised his needle-like wand, but Percival shook his head and Broomstick didn’t attack, alert though he seemed to remain in Percival’s hold.

“I had a new vision,” Grandmother’s voice had grown even weaker. It was thin and so soft Percival, bewildered by her unusually gentle manner, had to lean in closer to make out the words. “A vision of you. It became clear to me it is not you who will become the monster – I was mistaken, terribly so. It is Grindelwald."

The name meant nothing to Percival, but it seemed important to her and so he gave a polite nod as if he understood perfectly well what she was talking about.

"The monster will come after you, he will use your face. If only I had realized sooner… But now I’m running out of time. I have no time to explain, to… tell you all. It is more important to... more important to… save you to make… amends…”

Her waxy eyes fell closed, but she tightened her grasp around his wrist. She frowned, muttering words in a foreign language, and suddenly something almost like a hot pulse went from her hand into his wrist, startling fast. The pulse ran up his arm, all the way up to his neck and then down into his heart, and suddenly he heard a chorus of whispers in his ear, like a hundred people were suddenly whispering to him all at once. One after another the whispers fell silent until there was only one voice left, the voice of an unfamiliar child humming. It was eerie and gave Percival a start, and he looked around to see if there was someone in the room with them, but it was only just him, dad and Grandmother, and the humming was coming from inside his head.

Grandmother had cast a spell on him, he was aware, a powerful spell, and his shields came instantly up purely by instinct. It left him shivering and oddly warm and tingling inside, not at all an unpleasant feeling, but he still pulled himself free from her grasp, uncomfortable to have spells cast on him without his permission.

Had she cursed him?

“Not a curse,” Grandmother rasped out like she could guess his thoughts, arm going limp. “I used all the magic I had left. I took it all and used it to form a connection. Use the connection, Percival, use it and it might save you when the day comes the monster takes you.”

She moaned, softly.

“I’m sorry, Percival. Shouldn't have hated you. What a... waste.”

She didn’t say anything more, couldn’t have, for she had died.

* * *

Percival wept when dad with his head respectfully bent pulled the blanket over Grandmother’s face. He hadn’t seen anyone dead before, if one didn’t count Great Uncle George who haunted their library, and he was frightened by the presence of the death in his home, as well as sad for the loss of a family member. Dad carried him out of Grandmother’s bedroom into his own bedroom and Tilly the House Elf appeared there to keep him company while mom and dad both went straight back to work like they did every evening regardless of the day’s events.

Before parents, mom and dad were aurors, and Percival's needs were second to their duties as aurors.

* * *

The humming didn’t stop. It went on for hours, long after Percival had watched dad pulling the blanket over Grandmother’s face, long after Tilly had tucked him in and wished “Master Percival a peaceful night”. The humming went on for so long Percival eventually recognized one of the nursery rhymes and even remembered the lyrics to it,

_”I saw Little Matthew_

_flying on his broom_

_above the sunny valley_

_where all the flowers bloom._

_As the Sun went down,_

_so did Little Matthew,_

_and now sleeps all the town_

_as does Little Matthew.”_

Feelings still a confusing bundle over his grandmother’s passing and over her deeds to him before her death, Percival listened to the humming until sleep finally claimed him.

* * *

In his dream, the humming was louder, clearer. He found himself standing in a valley of blooming dandelions and watched as Little Matthew flew somewhere far above on the clear blue sky on his broom. He watched up until it became boring, and then he looked around to see where the humming was coming from. He couldn’t initially see anyone and therefore, curious, he began to follow the sound of the humming, following it to a creek and alongside it all the way to a blooming cherry tree. The cherry tree shone bright, illuminating its surroundings and the slight figure under it.

There, under the cherry tree, there was a little boy wearing a white night gown. He was smaller than Percival, but he was grooming a griffin while humming his nursery rhymes and that was impressive enough to bring Percival to a full halt. Apart from picture books, he had never even seen a griffin before, and even if he had, he certainly wouldn’t have dared to attempt to groom one – yet, there now was a boy smaller than him _humming_ while grooming the imposing beast as if he was doing but a mundanely pleasant task.

The griffin regarded Percival silently, but even though it made no move to get up from its comfortable position on the field of dandelions, something about it must have alerted the boy because he stopped humming and looked over his shoulder straight at Percival whose heart was suddenly pounding in his chest for more than one reason.

Untamed honey-colored curls framed a symmetrical face from which a pair of round blue eyes blinked at Percival, surprised. There were freckles on top of the pretty nose – and suddenly Percival felt compelled to show the boy how fast he could run. As soon as the thought had popped into his mind, he was off, bolting around the cherry tree as fast as he could go.

Had he stopped, he couldn’t have explained to himself why he was running, but as he didn’t stop, he never considered the matter more carefully. Instead, he made a few cartwheels and then climbed up the cherry tree all the way to the top. Then he jumped down from there because it was a dream and he knew he wouldn’t get hurt. The pretty boy was still looking at him when he landed and it gave Percival a thrill, made his heart pound all the faster. He proceeded to walk on his hands a little bit, wanting to keep the boy _looking_ , but he wasn’t too good at that and so he fell, awkwardly, and then hurried to do some forward rolls so the boy would forget Percival had just fallen.

Eventually Percival, panting, had to stop and he went to sit next to the boy, doing his best to look like the grown up seven-year-old he was. He wasn’t sure why, but he wanted terribly to impress this pretty boy in his dream.

The griffin had vanished like it had never been there. In its place, there was a griffin-sized full hourglass. Blue sand was slowly trickling from the upper bulb to the lower one, but Percival barely spared it a glance, his interest elsewhere as it was.

They studied each other, Percival and the boy, although Percival was looking openly while the boy was giving him shy glances from behind the curly fringe.

”How did you get in my dream?” the boy finally asked softly in an accent so pleasant it made Percival grin.

”This is actually _my_ dream,” he said, still grinning, and almost added, “You’re just a dream character in my dream,” but that would have been rude and might have hurt the boy’s feelings, so he didn’t say it. “I’m Percival, and I’m seven, and my grandmother died today, and this is my dream.”

”I’m Newt,” said the boy, timidly, playing with the hem of his night gown. Neither one of them was wearing shoes, Percival only wearing his striped pajamas. “And I’m five."

”You’re littler than me, then,” said Percival, satisfied with the fact. “It means I get to protect you.”

The boy, Newt gave him a look that might have been wary, might have been skeptical.

”From what?”

Percival waved a hand, gesturing generally.

”You know,” he said, although he didn’t know himself. “From _bad things_.”

Newt’s chin gave a wobble, although it also raised mutinously.

”There are no _bad things_ in my dreams,” his soft voice almost sounded offended and Percival felt a little bad even though he knew it was actually _his_ dream and the boy was just a character his mind had come up with this night. “I can only have _good things_ in my dreams because mom and dad and Theseus wish me _sweet dreams_ every night before I fall asleep.”

”Then I wish we really were in your dream,” Percival admitted, wistful. “I get nightmares often. Grandmother says it’s because I’m a dark wizard in the making. Mom says it’s because Grandmother tells me frightening things.”

Newt tilted his head, his eyes growing wider.

”Are you a d-dark wizard? Is that how you got into my dream?”

Now it was Percival’s turn to get offended.

”I’m not a dark wizard - how dare you - and I will never become one either! I will become an _auror_ and all aurors are good wizards!”

”And this is _my_ dream, not yours!” he added with an emphasis. “So there.”

Newt was sniffling down at the ground, the fringe hiding his face, and Percival realized only then he had scared the other boy with his shouting, and he spent the next moments feeling horrible and trying to apologize. He went as far as to fumble awkwardly for his magic to Accio them a broom from somewhere, and then he took Newt flying, flying them on the broom above the valley until Newt was no longer weeping. They flew that dream, together, waving at Little Matthew who didn't pay them any mind, and Percival even flew them through a rainbow a couple of times because it made Newt whoop in delight and say something about unicorns, which seemed to be a good thing.

"Oh, it's morning now," said Newt abruptly, sounding suprised, once they finally landed, blinking up at the sky as if he was seeing something more than just the blue sky Percival saw. "It's time for me to wake up. Theseus is already shaking me awake."

Without any further warning, Newt vanished and Percival, startled by his dream friend suddenly not being there, was left alone in the valley.

The sand in the hourglass trickled slowly, slowly, slowly from the upper bulb to the lower one, and Percival looked at it, dully. It was suddenly boring, and he no longer liked this dream very much, and he sat down to sulk, crossing his arms on his chest.

He missed Newt. They had had fun.

* * *

When he woke up, Percival remembered the boy and the hourglass and the blooming valley, but he didn't remember the boy's name or what had happened after he had stared down the hourglass. He no longer heard the humming either, and by noon, the Graves manor was filled with mourners coming to see Grandmother and his parents, and Percival no longer had the time to think about his dream, accepting it had all just been something his subconsciousness had come up with for the night.

That was, at least, what he believed up until he met the boy again in his dream the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reposting this fic due to some additions&changes. I hope you liked it!
> 
> I'm still working on my fics, I haven't abandoned them.


	2. The Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments & the kudos! They fuel my writing.

Obsessed.

It was Mr. Cunningham who helped him to look the word up on the thick dictionary Mr. Cunningham always carried around in the magically enlarged inside pocket of his brown vest, and so Percival learnt “obsessed” was the word for what mom and dad became after Grandmother’s passing – they became _obsessed_ with finding the Grindelwald monster Grandmother had mentioned before her passing.

“We’ll take Grindelwald out before they can get to our boy,” Percival overheard dad saying two days after Grandmother’s funeral when he and mom came to the sitting room, visibly upset, while Aunt Sibilla was snoring softly in her painting and Percival was crawling there under one of the sofas out of sight looking for evidence. He was playing an auror, and while he wasn’t exactly sure what kind of evidence could be found under their old furniture, he was nonetheless determined to find it. So far he had found a button and some fuzz which he reckoned was a great start. 

“We’ll find that monster and we’ll neutralize the threat for once and for all!” dad – even as he went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a drink – sounded equally determined to find Grindelwald as Percival was to find evidence. “I will fight anyone who dares to even look at my boy the wrong way!”

“That’s all well and good, dear,” said mom, who Percival had by now learnt was the more practical and the less dramatic of his parents, “but how can we find this Grindelwald? We don’t even know their gender, let alone their country of origin. Margareth didn’t describe them and only gave us the name, after all, and none of her paintings are any more forthcoming since they were painted before she had her vision.”

(In fact, Grandmother’s paintings still strongly disliked Percival which was why Percival avoided going to the ballroom where the majority of them were now located – on the day of the funeral, her paintings had said particularly nasty things to him, things that had made him stutter for hours and tears stung in his eyes, and so mom had finally had enough and had placed all Grandmother’s paintings in the same room so Percival wouldn’t need to encounter them all around his home.)

“Grindelwald is a village in Switzerland,” said dad – who always knew everything – as he paced in front of the fireplace with his drink while mom took her seat on the armchair, her dark green chiffon dress rustling in the familiar manner that always made Percival think of home and _her_. “We’ll start from there. Perhaps Durmstrang-”

“Durmstrang won’t cooperate,” mom cut dad off, calmly but in her decisive manner. “Even if this Grindelwald was a Durmstrang graduate, the personnel at Durmstrang would merely delight in knowing they were coming after the heir of the Graves family. If you contacted anyone at Durmstrang, you’d just paint the target on Percival brighter.”

For a few long moments, while his parents kept on discussing, Percival remained there still on his belly, undecided. On one hand, he didn’t want to get scolded for eavesdropping, so he should avoid getting seen by his parents, but on the other hand, he also didn’t want to eavesdrop because that was forbidden and against the rules. In the end, his determination to obey rules outwon his wish to not get scolded, and so he crawled from under the sofa to avoid accidentally overhearing any more of his parents’ private conversations.

Unsurprisingly, he got scolded for eavesdropping. Then dad gave his ear a gentle peck before ruffling Percival’s hair, similarly brown to his own.

“Don’t worry, my pride and joy,” dad said. “Grindelwald won’t get anywhere near you. I will protect you, or die trying.”

In that moment, Percival believed his dad. He had no reason not to – dad always kept his promises.

Really, a monster or not, Percival had no reason to fear Grindelwald. After all, he had mom and dad and Tilly protecting him, and he also had Uncle Charles and Uncle Frank and Aunt Sibilla and Senior Auror Broomstick, so he was as safe as a wizard could be. He had no reason to be afraid.

Grindelwald would never get to him.

Had Percival been a seer like his grandmother, he might have then known better, but he wasn’t, so he didn’t, and so he didn’t spend his childhood worrying about a faceless monster called Grindelwald and was perfectly unaware his parents were doing just that.

* * *

He was drowning.

Grandmother was holding him underwater and he couldn’t escape her grip. She was forcing him underwater and he _couldn’t breathe_ and _he was drowning!_

Percival tried to scream, tried to plead for her to stop, to let him go, but water flooded into him when he opened his mouth and then he could tell he would soon die. He was dying, Grandmother was killing him. He tried to fight her, tried his hardest, but she was too strong, too powerful, too big for him.

 _No!_ he couldn’t even voice his desperate thought for all the water flooding into his mouth. _NO!_

Grandmother had died and now she would take him with her.

Suddenly, a bright white light flashed – and Newt appeared next to him in his nightgown, familiar curls tousled and swaying along the motions of the water.

 _Run!_ Percival wanted to shout. _Run, before she gets you too!_ But he couldn’t find his voice and Newt didn’t run.

Like she hadn’t even noticed Newt’s sudden appearance, Grandmother continued to drown Percival. Newt blinked at her, a worried frown appearing on his face. Percival waved a hand frantically, trying to gesture him to _run_ , but Newt remained on the spot, simply tilting his head questioningly.

“That is not nice, Mrs. Lady,” he said in his meek manner. “Percival doesn’t like that. You are hurting him. Please stop?”

Grandmother ignored Newt, who began to wring his hands, looking at Percival with worry written all over his face. He then took a step closer to Grandmother, shaking a finger at her, scolding.

“You must stop, Mrs. Lady,” he said again, but again Grandmother ignored him like Newt didn’t exist to her at all.

Percival had no more strength left and he could feel his limbs going limp one after another. Crying silently, he looked at Newt.

“Enough,” said Newt, chin wobbling like he too was holding back tears. “I don’t like your dream, Percival. She’s mean!”

Without any warning, he reached out and took a gentle hold of Percival’s hand, his skin warm and dry despite of the cold water all around.

“Let’s go to my dream instead,” he suggested – and before Percival could quite comprehend what had happened, Grandmother was suddenly no longer holding him underwater. In fact, suddenly there was no Grandmother at all and all the salty water was replaced by a peaceful dandelion valley, the same which he had dreamt of for several nights now. Wind was rustling the leaves of the cherry tree, gently, and the Sun shone bright and warm above on the sky where Little Matthew was flying circles on his broom.

In the shadow of the mostly full griffin-sized hourglass in which blue sand was slowly trickling down, Percival could breathe again and he gulped a lungful after a lungful or air, holding onto Newt’s hand tightly, afraid to let go in case letting go would cause him getting pulled back to his nightmare with Grandmother.

“Thank you,” he said when he could again talk and had calmed down somewhat. “I don’t know how you managed that, but you saved me from drowning.”

“You didn’t come to my dream like usual, so I wondered where you were,” said Newt from the safety of his fringe, “and then I heard you crying and I followed the sound out of my dream and found you in your dream. Then I took us back to my dream because it’s nicer here, isn’t it?”

“It is,” and it sure was.

Little though he perhaps was, Newt was now a hero, as far as Percival was concerned – right there with mom and dad and Senior Auror Broomstick, all of whom had before saved Percival from Grandmother.

“Who was that old lady?” Newt sounded scared, hero or not. “She was terribly mean to you.”

“My grandmother,” said Percival with a sigh. “She’s not usually that angry, but I still hope she won’t find us here.”

“She won’t,” and Newt said that with confidence, squeezing Percival’s hand. “I’ve told you before: this is my dream and there are no bad things or mean grandmothers in my dreams because mom and dad and Theseus wish me sweet dreams every night before I fall asleep. You are safe in my dream.”

Percival was too relieved Grandmother wasn’t there to point out Newt was just a dream character and that it was all actually _Percival’s_ dream, not Newt’s.

* * *

“That’s the thorax,” Newt said, bright-eyed and eager, and Percival looked, politely, as Newt pointed at the middle of an insect with a stick. “Antenna, compound eyes, mouthparts. Oh, I wish I had my magnifying glass with me!”

Finding himself eager to please his heroic dream friend, Percival waved a hand and a magnifying glass manifested itself. He handed it over to Newt who flashed Percival such a blinding smile it left Percival feeling a thrilling combination of shy and excited, even as Newt went back to chattering away about pollinating and studying one of the orange butterflies more closely, unaware of Percival’s pounding heart.

Newt looked at the insect and Percival looked at him and somehow they were both enjoying themselves. Generally, butterflies were boring, but Newt loved them, and so Percival found himself spending the rest of his dream looking at flowers and butterflies and beetles and Newt in the peaceful dandelion valley.

While Newt was usually shy and meek and timid, talking about the insects made him confident and outspoken – the change was fascinating to see, but Percival never commented on it, careful to not make him self-conscious. Studying Newt’s profile, there was only one conclusion Percival could come to:

Newt was… _intriguing_.

* * *

He always forgot the boy’s name the second he woke up.

It frustrated Percival to no avail, the not recalling his dream friend’s name, all the more so because he well knew the name _was_ there in his mind since he could remember it the moment he fell asleep and began dreaming. The frustrating part was, right after waking up, the name slipped from his mind even though Percival could still recall, down to a detail, the boy’s features and the way his hair had tickled Percival’s nose when Percival had wrapped his arms around his midriff when the two of them had ridden a hippogriff.

“Obsessed” was again a word he needed because that’s what he then became – obsessed with trying to recall everything he could about his dream friend.

He began to do sketches – smiling stick figures with big eyes and messy hair – which never came to even close to describing his dream friend, and talked about the boy to Mr. Cunningham and mom and dad and Tilly and Uncle Charles and _anyone_ who had a moment to spare.

“What’s his name?” Mr. Cunningham asked, frowning, and when Percival couldn’t recall, his frown became deeper.

* * *

It was Mr. Cunningham who first suggested to mom and dad that Percival might be lonely, judging from the way he was having a reoccurring character in his dreams – a boy about the same age, one with whom he could play and spend time with, one that soothed his nightmares.

“Excuse me for saying this,” Mr. Cunningham said with his hand on Percival’s shoulder, addressing mom and dad who were sitting on the sofa side by side, having been called to the family meeting by Mr. Cunningham, “but I also believe he might be somewhat traumatized by his late grandmother who had… shall we say, ‘unpleasant’ opinions about him. I believe the dream character is Percival’s way of coping with the trauma and the loneliness.”

“No, he’s not,” Percival put in even though he shouldn’t have interrupted when adults were talking – he only spoke out because his dream character had nothing to do with _loneliness_ or _trauma_ , whatever that was. “I’m dreaming about him because he’s fun and brave and really pretty and knows a lot about insects, and even though he doesn’t want to be an auror when he grows up, I bet he’ll still be a good wizard, and Grandmother must have liked me at least a little because he gave him to me as a gift because she cast a spell on me which made my dream friend first appear.”

Admitting the boy had appeared in his dream because of Grandmother’s spell was enough to cause a stir in the Dutiful and Honorable House of Graves. Mom and dad and Mr. Cunningham decided she must have cursed him on her deathbed, and even though Percival tried to explain she hadn’t, mom still combed his hair and forced him to wear his Sunday clothes and dad still wanted to take him to the MACUSA headquarters to see Uncle Frank, who was an expert on curses and reversing them.

Percival fought the whole way. He understood the adults wanted to remove the boy from his dreams in case he was part of a curse, but Percival knew better and he would not let them take his dream friend from him!

_He!_

_Would!_

_NOT!_

_Let!_

_Them!_

He was NOT cursed, Grandmother had NOT cursed him, the boy in his dreams was NOT the result of a curse. The dream boy was too good to be a curse. The boy was kind and gentle and soft and great at coming up with adventures.

Before dad managed to pull Percival into the fireplace to floo them to the MACUSA headquarters, Percival’s magic had built a brick wall in front of the fireplace and formed a trench between them and it. It took mom and dad and Tilly and Mr. Cunningham hours to pass through the obstacles, but – when combined – they were just as stubborn as Percival and eventually dad – with mom and Mr. Cunningham’s help – did manage to force a struggling Percival into the fireplace and to floo the two of them to his work place even as Percival, disobeying or not, begged him not to because he didn’t want to give up his dream friend.

* * *

“SENIOR AUROR FRANK OXFORD” read the plaque on the desk on which Percival was sitting, sulking. Percival glared the plaque while Uncle Frank studied him, muttering spells and waving his wand at Percival (the spells tickled, but a few times they also stung and Percival had to glower at the plaque harder in order to not cry out).

When he got bored of the plaque, Percival began to study Uncle Frank.

Despite of currently being almost an enemy for trying to remove Percival’s dream friend, Uncle Frank was great because he only had one eye and half a nose, so Percival – as he sat on the edge of Uncle Frank desk, sulking – could look straight into his head up the hole that had once formed a nostril. A curse had hit Uncle Frank in the face several decades ago when he had been a young auror, but Percival had never been told any details apart from that, much to his disappointment.

(How did Uncle Frank blow his nose when he got ill? Percival wanted to ask that, badly, but he suspected that was one of the things mom and dad would have considered disrespectful and so the question was better to left unvoiced, especially as he was in deep enough trouble for fighting his parents and Mr. Cunningham and for turning their entrance hall into a trenched fortification.)

“I can’t find any traces of curses,” Uncle Frank said. “He’s untainted. His magical essence remains untouched and pure like a child’s should.”

The glowing blue colors around Percival vanished, as Uncle Frank muttered a spell, waving his white wand, but dad looked neither satisfied nor convinced.

“Are you absolutely positive?” he demanded. “Did you check his-“

“ _Don’t_ insult me, Alexander, by even implying I did an incompetent job.” Uncle Frank cut dad off, but dad didn't scold him for it like he would have if Percival had been the one interrupting which was probably for the best because Uncle Frank was much older than dad and the resulting fight would have undoubtedly done nothing good to his heart (Uncle Frank often complained about his heart).

“I was the department’s leading curse expert when you were still but a babe wobbling around and holding onto your dad’s trouser leg. If I say the boy is not cursed, he’s not cursed.”

Uncle Frank gave Percival a calculating look and the one eye under a grey, bushy eyebrow narrowed.

“Besides, with that kind of magical power, I suspect it’s going to be extremely challenging to cast curses on him when he’s a grown wizard. I must say I’m both impressed and envious – that kind of untamed potential I haven’t ever seen before. When he’s a grown wizard, he will be one of the most-“

“He’s not yet a grown wizard,” dad sounded annoyed, but – much to Percival’s relief – dad didn’t get scolded either despite of having cut Uncle Frank off. Tapping a finger on his crossed arms in a characteristically impatient manner, dad instead went on, “Percival’s but a vulnerable little boy, and I saw with my own eyes as my mother used magic on him before her passing (you’ll keep that to yourself, Frank, you hear – I’ll not have the public talking ill of her). I assumed it was something harmless since I couldn’t detect anything myself, but now that he’s begun to talk about some boy he keeps on dreaming about… I want to know what she did to my son.”

“Well,” Uncle Frank put his wand into his shoulder holster and offered dad a grin, “whatever she did, it wasn’t a bad thing, so no reason for you to come crying about it to me. She didn’t hurt him magically, that much I can tell for certain.”

Dad frowned. The look he gave Percival was mostly unreadable, but somehow a little desperate. Worried.

If Percival hadn’t been sulking, he would have comforted his father, but he was sulking, so he gave the plaque another glare instead.

Uncle Frank sighed.

“Don’t torment yourself with any of it, my friend,” he said, putting a hand on dad’s shoulder. “Your son is just fine – aren’t you, Percival?”

Percival gave a terse nod.

“Yes, sir,” he confirmed, adding then hopefully, “and I would be even better, if you let me see your badge?”

Uncle Frank threw back his head to laugh.

“You little rascal – a true Graves if I ever saw one, a born auror,” he then praised, fondly, and ruffled Percival’s hair.

Percival allowed it because he was soon after presented with a shiny silvery badge that had the department coat of arms on it, the capital letters DMLE over two crossed wands. While dad and Uncle Frank went on arguing about curses, Percival held the badge reverently with both hands, studying it carefully from all angles.

Would he have a badge one day? He hoped he would. He would keep it as shiny as Uncle Frank’s and he wouldn’t let anyone take it from him, especially not some monster called Grindelwald.

Percival wished his dream friend could have been there to see the badge.

* * *

Since no curses had been detected, mom and dad decided Mr. Cunningham’s initial theory must have been correct: Percival was lonely, they said. Percival was traumatized, and that was why he kept on dreaming about a boy who took him away from nightmares and kept him company in his dreams.

(No-one told Percival what "traumatized" meant and he didn’t ask, but that’s what he was, mom and dad and Mr. Cunningham said. It wasn’t good to be traumatized, Percival understood.)

Mom arranged for a mind healer to come and see Percival three times a week, and since Healer Millimoore was really a kind witch, Percival didn’t mind talking to her, not even about Grandmother. Much to his surprise, talking about Grandmother to Healer Millimoore did result in fewer nightmares.

For Percival's sake, mom and dad made an effort to socialize more with other aurors and government officials who had children around Percival’s age and they invited them regularly over, the parents and the children, and Percival was supposed to play with the children, so he did, politely. Even though it wasn’t always fun (some of the children were spoiled and blamed Percival for playing too rough when they lost), he did manage to make a few genuine friends, too:

William Otterfield was the son of the president and he knew a lot of swearwords Percival hadn’t heard before. They bonded over the said swearwords and even came up with a few of their own. William in turn was impressed with the trench Percival had built around the fireplace the evening dad had taken him to see Uncle Frank, even more so when Percival told him his parents hadn’t yet been able to remove it which was why Tilly had built the bridge over the trench.

Christina Smith was the second friend Percival made. She was the daughter of Director of Magical Security and she picked her nose whenever adults didn’t see. Her boogers were so impressive Percival suggested she should start collecting them in a jar which she did too. She always took the jar with her for her visits and she showed Percival any new boogers she had collected. It was disgusting and Percival loved it like most little boys would have. Christina also knew a lot of poop jokes and Percival was at the age where he laughed out loud at anything relating to poop and butts, so it was friendship built on shared laughter.

Despite of the friends he made in the waking world, none compared to the boy he spent his dreams with.

* * *

Reluctantly, Percival became a great liar: he managed to convince his parents the dreams had stopped, that he no longer had a dream friend – he was well aware lying went against everything the Graves stood for, but he was also aware his parents would have found some way to remove the boy from his dreams had they known the boy still appeared in his dreams every night. His parents were wrong about the boy, he knew, and he didn’t want to give up his dream friend, and so he needed to lie, even though it was morally wrong and not something he should have done as a Graves.

Perhaps Grandmother had been right when she had said he would never become a proper Graves, Percival mused, resigned.

No proper Graves lied, after all, and he was a liar.

And a good one at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pretty please, leave me a comment! I would so love to know what you thought of the chapter. :)


	3. Accidental Magic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the encouragement!

It was boring.

_BORING._

Percival shifted on his chair between his parents and resisted the urge to sigh out loud. The tips of his shiny black shoes didn’t reach the floor and he would have swung his legs hadn’t dad put a binding hex on them after the fifth time Percival had done so – apparently swinging one’s legs in company was “poor behavior”, even if one did it under the table in the cover of the tablecloth where no-one really could have seen and be bothered by it.

Uncle Charles was still droning on at the head of the table with a champagne glass held in one hand, his written speech in the other, thanking mom and dad and Aunt Jocelyn and a bunch of important-looking people Percival hadn’t ever heard of for things Percival didn’t quite understand or care about. The important-looking people, as guests of Uncle Charles, were gathered there around the long dining table, the silver and the gold and the diamonds and the pearls on them sparkling in the light of the hundreds of candles in the crystal chandeliers above.

It was January the 8th 1904. A month prior, Uncle Charles had been voted for the president of the American Wizarding Society, and his inauguration today had been such an important event Percival, too, had had to wear a whole new set of fine clothes for it, complete with the shiny black shoes and the engraved golden pocket watch on a chain dad had given him for his ninth birthday that morning. Mom had even checked – thrice – if Percival had remembered to wash behind the ears as well (which he of course had because he wasn’t a cave troll).

After the inauguration and a whole day of boring speeches, Uncle Charles had kept on celebrating with “the people closest to him”, among whom the Graves were, and that was why Percival was now sitting there at the long dining table, bored out of his mind. It was made all the worse because today, January 8th 1904 wasn’t only the date of Uncle Charles’ inauguration but also Percival’s ninth birthday. Yet, instead of a cheerful “Happy Birthday to You”, he had been forced to listen to long speeches, and to make the matters even worse, he would soon get lobster and caviar (both of which he disliked) instead of the strawberry cake he had wished for.

At least he had been given many wonderful gifts – William’s family had even gotten him a broom, a Nimbus 1900. It was one of the most modern brooms out there, William had told Percival as much, and William would know since he obsessed with brooms and flying. (Percival found flying okay enough, but even if it wasn’t in any way his favorite thing to do, he still appreciated the fine gift.)

Wishing he could have been inspecting his gifts rather than sitting there at the table, Percival stifled yet another sigh. Wondering if it would be possible for his brain to start drippling out of his nostrils like snot, he glanced over at William, who was sitting on the opposite side of the table with his father. William didn’t notice his look, picking at his golden cufflinks as he was, clearly just as bored as Percival.

Percival shifted on his seat, impatiently. If only they could both be excused, William and him! It wouldn’t be half bad, if they could go play outside and leave the adults to their adult things.

Briefly, Percival wondered about catching Williams’ attention to make faces at him, but after a careful glance at his dad – who was giving him a stern look like he could read Percival’s thoughts – he wisely abandoned the idea as soon as it had occurred to him.

“When people have seen our flag in some of the most desperate times in history,” Uncle Charles was droning on in a teary voice that suggested he was in a deeply emotional mindset, “they have known what it stands for. Freedom. Justice. Standing up for what is right. What will the future generations think when they see our flag? That I cannot yet know, but today we all understand we must-“

Percival resisted the urge to slouch, but didn’t manage to stifle a yawn even if mom was quick to pinch his arm in warning – yawning in company was disrespectful, there would be _words_ when they got home.

Offering his mother an apologetic look, Percival sighed to himself.

If only something interesting would happen.

As if hearing his thought, the silvery utensils on the table jumped up to stand, cutting Uncle Charles effectively off with their simultaneous _KLOK_ caused by their stems hitting the table as one. Even as the sound of the KLOK still echoed in the suddenly hushed hall, Percival blinked at them, surprised, as did Uncle Charles in his owlish manner over his round spectacles. As everyone watched, the knives jumped up to the forks – klok, klok, klok – to bow to them.

“Mercy Lewis!” gasped one of the pearl-wearing older ladies when the forks bowed right back. She sounded scandalized – utensils bowing to one another wasn’t apparently a thing that should have happened at an afterparty of a presidential inauguration.

A gramophone came floating into the room from somewhere, coming to a halt right above the dining table. It began to play “The Midnight Flight” which was one of the waltzes Mr. Cunningham had forced Percival to learn, and the forks and the knives began to waltz right there on the white tablecloth while the adults gaped, William laughed and Percival grinned and straightened up on his seat, boredom forgotten.

* * *

Mom – even paler than usual – and dad – stuttering, red-faced – wouldn’t stop apologizing to Uncle Charles, who now sat at the head of the table with a glass of something light brown that smoked in his shaking hand. Percival, too, had to formally apologize even if he hadn’t realized _he_ had been the one responsible for the utensil ball, while everyone stared at him with expression varying from admiring (in the case of William) to calculating and disapproving.

“That was,” said Uncle Charles, blinking frantically at Percival before looking up at dad, “that was quite the case of accidental magic. I have never witnessed anything like that, Alexander. How powerful is your boy anyway?”

Dad looked uncomfortable. His hand appeared on Percival’s shoulder and it was almost like he was considering apparating Percival away from there, away from where everyone was staring.

Percival knew mom and dad had done their best to keep him off the public eye now that he was still a child. He suspected they were trying to keep him safe, that way. With that in mind, causing a scene at a presidential gathering wasn’t appreciated by them either for more than one reason.

He looked down at his gleaming shoes, uncomfortable.

“We shall see when he grows up, Sir,” mom was the one to answer Uncle Charles’ question, tone carefully neutral. “For now, he is only an ordinary little boy and should be treated as such.”

* * *

“I never knew I was more powerful than children my age,” Percival told Newt that night, as the two of them sat under their cherry tree in their night clothes, Newt with thick, striped woolly socks on, while Percival’s feet were bare as always, “but Uncle Charles said I was and there were already four owls waiting for me when we got home from Uncle Charles’ manor. The letters were about some kinds of ‘training programs for special witches and wizards’. I was invited to join them, but I don’t want to. After all, I already have Mr. Cunningham teaching me – couldn’t he teach me magic, too?”

Mr. Cunningham – or rather, a slightly translucent dream version of him – appeared just then above them up in the cherry tree, regarding Percival with that same stern look upon his face he had had earlier that evening when Percival had suggested Mr. Cunningham should teach him magic, too, so he wouldn’t need to participate in any “training programs for special children” before Ilvermorny.

“My purpose, young man,” Mr. Cunningham, adjusting his glasses, now said in his dry manner just like he had said that evening, “is to teach you reading and writing, general reading comprehension, math, geography, ethics, human biology, music and arts, languages – the kinds of finer subjects the wizarding education tends to lack. I do not teach _magic_ like some common wizarding teacher. And now, Mr. Graves, wir müssen _und wollen_ die deutsche Sprache lernen, so put ‘The Goblin Adventures’ aside and open ‘German Grammar and Phrases, Vol II.’, please, page 55.”

With a pop, Mr. Cunningham’s dream version vanished when Percival wished hard he would, not at all enthusiastic about having to study German in a dream about Newt.

“Who was that?” asked Newt, sniffling. He was ill which was why they were now sitting under the cherry tree, resting. He had a hot water bottle with him in the dream because he claimed he "had fallen asleep hugging it" and a thermometer appeared in his mouth occasionally almost like someone in the waking world was taking his temperature every now and then – although that of course couldn’t be because he was just a dream character, not a real boy.

“Mr. Cunningham,” Percival said, plucking grass. “He teaches me things I won’t learn at Ilvermorny later.”

“Ilvermorny?” Newt frowned, sleepily.

They clearly weren’t going to do any adventuring this dream, Newt obviously didn’t feel up to it. Percival didn’t care what they would do for as long as they did it together – even just sitting still wasn’t boring when Newt was there for company. Besides, he wanted Newt to rest properly so he would get better soon, a dream character or not.

“Is that a school? Why don’t you go to Hogwarts?”

Percival laid down onto the ground on his back, looking up at the pink cherry flowers. How nice would it be if the tree would grow cherries, one dream.

“Why would I go to Hogwarts?” he wondered, lazily. “Mom and dad went to Ilvermorny and Ilvermorny is the best school in the world, everyone knows that.”

Newt coughed, shivering. His chubby cheeks were flushed, there was a sickly gleam in his blue eyes.

“Theseus says _Hogwarts_ is the best school there is.”

A thermometer appeared in his mouth again.

Percival frowned and touched Newt’s forehead. It was hotter than it had been before.

“Theseus hasn’t heard of Ilvermorny, then,” he decided. “And you should probably lie down. Your fever is rising.”

“I’d rather sit,” Newt managed to mumble with the thermometer hanging from the corner of his mouth. He was stubborn like that. Percival rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue.

The hourglass with the blue sand was no longer as full as it had been in their first dream together, but there was still a lot of sand to trickle down before the upper bulb would be empty. Percival regarded it, critically. The hourglass was always there when he dreamt of Newt. He wondered what its purpose was, what his subconsciousness was trying to tell him with it. That his childhood was slowly coming to an end? Or something about time management in general?

“I think,” said Newt, the thermometer no longer in his mouth, when Percival voiced his thoughts, “that it counts down.”

“To what?”

Newt was quiet for a minute.

“You still don’t think I’m real, do you?” he asked after a while instead of answering.

Percival looked away, uncomfortable. Newt was just a dream character, although they both wished he was real.

There was a sound of knocking – _”Tilly has come to tell Master Percival the breakfast is ready!"_ – Percival blinked – and found himself lying in his bed in his bedroom.

He had woken up!

Instantly, he reached for the pen and the notebook he was now in a habit of keeping on his bedside table – but by the time he had them in his hand, he had forgotten his dream friend’s name, again.

He muffled his frustrated scream in the pillow, aching for the cherry tree and his friend under it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's back to work tomorrow, folks, after the Easter holidays. Cheer me up with a comment?


	4. At Ilvermorny

“Graves, Percival,” Vice Principal Hopp called out into the echoing entrance hall, and Percival’s heart jumped.

Right. His turn.

“Good luck,” William whispered from his left. His face was ghostly white and he looked like he would soon either faint or throw up. He had earlier confessed he was terrified of the Wampus – if it roared at him, he had said, he might just wet himself.

Percival gave his friend’s hand a comforting squeeze.

“Ass. Shithole. _Fuck._ ”

The cursing was worth it because it turned the corners of William’s lips up and seemed to relieve some of the tension from his shoulders. Percival winked before briskly pushing his way through the crowd of other first years and walking onto the Gordian Knot on the floor in the center of the entrance hall, while the older students watched in silence from the circular balcony on a floor above, some of them attentive, others looking outright bored.

Mom had suspected the Thunderbird would choose him, dad had expected the Wampus – and the wooden Wampus statue it was that now reacted, roaring so loudly Percival felt it resonating in his chest cavity. The apologetic look he sent in William’s way went unnoticed – William was staring at the roaring Wampus statue with eyes so wide Percival half feared they might pop out of his head – but as the Wampus house began to cheer, Percival couldn’t help but grin despite of William’s discomfort, having thus been sorted into Wampus.

Just like dad before him.

With his chest swelling with pride and satisfaction, he took his place among the other boys and girls so far sorted into the same house, feeling simultaneously tall and small in his brand-new school uniform made by Weston&Sons, the best tailors in the continent and the ones in charge of the Graves’ wardrobes.

While Professor Hopp called for “Haves, Amanda” to come forth, Percival looked around with curiosity.

A lot of girls in his year, some of them taller than he was, but he knew none of them since Christina with her bugger jar had moved to Australia due to her father getting a transfer there. A witch with blond curls and another with brown braids were eyeing him carefully and he turned his grin on them. Instantly, both of them looked away, the blond one blushing, and Percival’s easy grin was replaced with a frown – he had hoped to make new friends, but it seemed like at least two of his house mates disliked him from the start.

Next to him “Abrahams, James,” a tiny, thin Cherokee boy with a frightened look on his face stood still like one of Ilvermorny’s statues, his black hair long and silky like a river flowing down his back. There was a white feather in his hair and Percival’s eyes lingered on it (his dream friend would have known what bird had feathers like that). In passing, Percival wondered why the boy’s family hadn’t chosen a better tailor – his blue Ilvermorny robes were threadbare and far too big for him and his shoes looked worn – but then his attention was again taken by the sorting ceremony.

All the while, his fingers itched for the wand in his pocket, recently purchased from Thiago Quintana. He wanted to hold it, he wanted to _use it_. It was calling for him, but self-disciplined by nature as he was, Percival ignored the call and focused on the sorting ceremony as good manners required.

William didn’t wet himself, but when it was his time to be sorted, he stumbled onto his robes. The witch with brown braids giggled while Professor Hopps helped William up, and Percival gave her a glare. Perhaps he hadn’t lost much of a friend in her, after all, if another’s misfortune was what she found amusing.

William ended up in the Horned Serpent and seemed delighted by that, much to Percival’s disappointment.

* * *

Newt looked disappointed, too, when Percival told him of it, of how William and he were now in different houses. Only, Newt wasn’t disappointed on his behalf – but because Percival had gone to Ilvermorny instead of the British school.

“If you had gone to Hogwarts, we could have been friends in the waking world, too,” Newt said what he had been saying ever since Percival had received his Ilvermorny letter in July. “My parents won’t let me go to Ilvermorny, I’ve asked already, but perhaps yours would have allowed you to come to Hogwarts. It is the best school in the world, after all. I’ll start there in two years, and if you had been there, we could have been friends every _day_ , too.”

Percival sighed. Having turned nine on May (they had celebrated his birthday one dream when Newt had suddenly declared it was the night of his birth), Newt had grown even more insistent he was a real boy, not just a dream character. They had had a few arguments about it since, and every time when Newt had burst into tears when the fight had become too heated, Percival – feeling rotten – had hurried to apologize and to do anything he could to make things right again.

Now, Percival didn’t want to start arguing again, he didn’t want to make Newt cry, and so he quickly changed the subject.

* * *

Professor Gumbkin didn’t like children, as probably was his right, but he was well known for his ability to produce excellent healers, so Percival was hesitantly optimistic about the Charms lessons beforehand. After all, as an auror, he would unavoidably one day get injured in the line of duty and Percival rather learnt some healing charms sooner than later.

Their first lesson at Charms, however, wasn’t about healing but levitating. Levitating was a necessary skill as well and so Percival wasn’t overly disappointed and listened intently as Professor Gumpkin used the better part of the lesson by explaining the theory behind the _Wingardium Leviosa_ charm, the finer aspects of it and the charm’s correct pronunciation.

Next to him James, whom Percival had been quick to befriend because James had said he might want to become an auror one day, was taking notes with a neat, precise handwriting. Percival didn’t bother taking notes since he was fairly certain he could later find all this in _Charms for Beginners, vol. IV_ , but because James hadn’t for some reason purchased a copy before coming to school, it was understandable he now needed to take notes due to his lack of the book, even though Percival would gladly borrow him his.

“I will now proceed to call you up here to my desk one at a time.” From where he was standing up on a podium in the front of the room, Professor Gumpkin snapped closed his _Charms for Beginners, vol. IV._ , while tapping – tap tap tap – his leg with a pointer in an almost nervous rhythm, and Percival, attentive, straightened his back instinctively. In the silence that followed, the blue eyes studied the class from behind the round spectacles, each student in turn. They lingered on a few, Percival among them, until finally Professor Gumpkin looked away and went on, “I have explained the charm in detail and your task is to now show me what you have learnt, whether you are as incompetent as I suspect you to be, or whether you will prove to be… of some use.”

He put the book down onto his desk and turned a piercing look on James, who was still holding a pen above his notebook as if prepared to take notes.

“You,” Professor Gumpkin gestured at James with the wooden pointer. “Name?”

“James Abrahams, sir.”

“Come here, Mr. Abrahams.”

“Yes, Professor.”

James put the cap onto the pen as if reluctant to let the ink dry and laid it carefully down onto the notebook he closed before hurrying to the front of the room.

The teacher’s desk was up on the podium and Professor Gumpkin now gestured James to climb up the three steps leading up to it. When he was close enough to touch, Professor Gumpkin took a hold of the white feather in James’ hair. With no warning whatsoever, he took the wand from where it had lain on his desk, pointed it at James and cut the feather off the hair with a muttered spell.

“Thank you, Mr. Abrahams,” he said and put both the wand and the feather onto his desk while James’ hand shot up to his hair as if to feel the absence of the feather. “This will be of use to me, I assure you.”

“It was my uncle’s,” said James, eyes glued to the feather on the desk. He seemed close to tears as he let his hand drop down to his side, listlessly. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t have it. I must have it back.”

“Well…” said Professor Gumpkin with a smile as slow as it was cold. “You can have it back, if one of you useless little pests can levitate it for twenty seconds with the use of the charm I just taught you. Otherwise I’ll keep it for my own use. Go back to your seat, Mr. Abrahams, and wait for your turn.”

James, with his dark eyes burning with anger and something akin to shame, marched back to his seat next to Percival with his chin wobbling.

Percival could only stare, stunned.

Wasn’t that… stealing?

Had a teacher just stolen property of a student?

It wasn’t until James and the students in the two rows in front of him had all turned to look at him that Percival realized he had asked that out loud. He snapped his mouth shut, knowing instantly he was in trouble now, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret his questions.

It had been stealing after all, hadn’t it, and no Graves stood for stealing, regardless of the thief’s identity or status.

 _When Professor Gumpkin furrowed his brows, he looked like a gorilla wearing spectacles._ Percival attempted to vanish the disrespectful thought as soon as it had come, while Professor Gumpkin took three brisk steps to descend from the podium onto the floor level. He passed the two front rows and came to a halt in front of Percival, casting a shadow on him as he towered above. Percival looked up in the blue eyes, warily.

“I know a Graves when I see one,” sneered Professor Gumpkin, regarding Percival closely while his pointer tapped – tap tap tap – nervously against his knee. “You all have similar brown eyes and pleasant features. Your women are beautiful, your men handsome, but it’s a widely accepted fact that the head of any a handsome wizard is filled with air and nothing but air, as is proved time and time again by the Graves’ annoying habit of sticking their wand where it has no business to be. Is your head filled with nothing but air, Mr. Graves?”

“No, sir.”

“Yet it must have been the air current forcing the words out of your mouth when it was not your turn to talk. Hands on the desk, Mr. Graves. Palms up.”

Giving the tapping pointer – tap tap tap – a brief glance, Percival did as he was told before focusing his eyes straight ahead. Hands on the desk. Palms up. His parents had never hit him, but he could tell what was coming.

The pointer raised and came flying down. He heard the smack of it before the pain hit him. Percival gritted his teeth when the professor raised the pointer again for the second hit. The third smack drew blood and Professor Gumpkin lowered the pointer slowly to his side.

“I hope this teaches you to not speak out of turn in my class, Mr. Graves.”

Stubborn as ever, Percival forced himself to meet the look of the blue eyes even as he closed his palms around the smarting.

Professor Gumpkin still looked like a gorilla. A smiling one. Satisfied.

“And I hope you will return the stolen property to its rightful owner, sir,” earned him a smarting ear where the teacher slapped him with a palm as open as the ones Percival had held on the desk.

When Professor Gumpkin was again up on the podium calling each student one at a time to try and levitate James’ feather, Percival looked down at his bleeding palms. He did his best to staunch the flow of blood with the handkerchief that had a cursive _P.G._ embroidered on it with silver yarn, while his class mates attempted to use the levitation charm for the first time.

Finally, it was his turn to try and levitate the feather. Apart from James, who had managed to levitate the feather for almost a full minute on his first try and should have thus been given the feather back already, no student had yet managed to make the charm work and each failure had been rewarded with a pointer smack on an open palm. By now, many were weeping and holding their reddened palms carefully to their chests as if to protect their hands from any further harm.

Percival, however, was determined to show Professor Gumpkin there was more in the head of a Graves than air, and so, standing up on the podium next to his teacher, he concentrated, pointed his wand at the feather on Professor Gumpkin’s desk and did his best – _”Wingardium Leviosa!”_ – with the result that the entire desk shot up to the ceiling and wouldn’t come down, no matter what Professor Gumpkin tried to do.

The peculiar thing was, the white feather had slipped from between the ceiling and the desk just in time and flew now straight to Percival, who was quick to run back to his seat and give it to James, who in turn was equally fast to hide the feather in his robes with a look of pure gratitude.

While Professor Gumpkin was too occupied with his desk being stuck on the ceiling to notice the feather was now missing, he did still take the time to hit Percival three more times in the palms, his anger putting more power behind each hit.

As blood seeped through the fine fabric of his handkerchief, Percival suspected he now knew why Professor Gumpkin’s students grew up to be such competent healers.

* * *

Newt wouldn’t stop weeping as he held Percival’s wrists gently and inspected the wounds on his palms.

“How could a t-teacher do th-this to you?”

“Some teachers believe in harsher punishments.” Percival tried to pull his hands away, the sight of blood was making Newt cry and he couldn’t stand seeing Newt cry, but Newt only tightened his grip and wouldn’t let go.

“He made you b-bleed. He should be fired!”

In truth, Percival rather agreed with Newt – his parents had never hit him, but it wasn’t uncommon for teachers to hit their students when needed. Only, “when needed” depended entirely on the teacher. Some teachers believed “when needed” was at most times, while in others’ opinion “when needed” was never.

“Calm down, Newt.” Percival tried to sound as soothing as only Newt could ever be. “My hands will heal. It’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

He had never seen Newt as serious as this, as Newt was as he now dreamed up a can of something white and began to spread the white ointment onto Percival’s wounds, gentle as ever. Surprisingly, the smarting stopped and when Percival looked from Newt’s pretty face down onto his palms, he saw they were no longer bleeding.

“Family recipe,” said Newt. “It has Alchemilla in it, and a healthy amount of spells. Looks like it works in dreams, too.”

“Thank you.”

They looked on as the wounds slowly closed, Newt still holding onto the wrists, but while Newt frowned down at the wounds, concentrating, Percival found his eyes rising up to study Newt’s face more often than not.

Actually, freckles were pretty.

Really pretty.

And how had he never noticed how long Newt’s lashes were? They were dark against the pale, freckled skin. Long and dark.

Pretty.

Really pretty.

“You should come to Hogwarts. Teachers at Hogwarts never hit their students.”

Percival sighed to himself, but didn’t answer. He didn't want to start arguing.

* * *

All things considered, his first week at Ilvermorny didn’t go as well as Percival had hoped it would and he told all about it to Newt, who listened in sympathy as was his nature.

For one, while most of his school mates were friendly enough, a few of the older ones called him spoiled and privileged and looked at him down their noses. Apparently, it wasn’t normal to be fluent in German and French at the age of eleven, or to play the cello, or to have a private tutor waiting at home, or to be friends with a boy whose dad happened to be a former president. Percival’s robes were _too fine_ , he was told, his back _too straight_ , his behavior _too self-confident_ , his family _too rich_ , the name Graves _too well known_ and _too respected_.

“They’re probably envious of you,” said Newt, who was pacing in front of him, angrily, “but I wish I was there with you to… to… to teach them a lesson in how to treat others with kindness! You deserve better, Percival. They should know it.”

Newt’s upset made Percival uncomfortable, and so he was quick to dream up a unicorn because unicorns always cheered Newt up. It did this time, too, and soon they were riding on the thing, Percival holding onto the golden reins while Newt sat behind him with his thin arms wrapped around Percival’s waist.

“How has Ilvermorny been otherwise?”

Percival sighed and answered truthfully.

In the addition of his first Charms lesson, his performance at some of the other lessons had left much to be desired: while Herbology, Potions and Flying all had proved to be useful classes and had gone by without incidents, he had had a poor start with Professor O’Higgins, who taught Transfiguration.

When the black-and-white flower seed Percival had been supposed to turn yellow had begun to grow due to his spells and had spurted eventually a bright yellow sunflower, he had in all honesty been tempted to hide the giant thing under his desk before Professor O’Higgins saw it, but his sense of responsibility hadn't allowed cheating – Percival had needed to face the consequences of his failure and that had been that, it had been that simple. Thankfully, even though Percival hadn’t managed to turn the seed yellow, Professor O’Higgins had been impressed more so than disapproving and had even told him to keep the sunflower.

If Percival’s start Professor O’Higgins had been poor, he had given Professor Butterfield an outright horrible first impression when he had accidentally knocked her out in Defence Against the Dark Arts when she had begun their lesson by challenging everyone to try and disarm her. She had been taken to the hospital wing and a frowning Professor Hopp had taken fifteen marks from Wampus, as Percival still agreed was only fair.

Afterwards, Percival had gone to see Professor Butterfield by her bedside and had gifted her with that giant sunflower and had bowed his head as he had voiced his deepest apologies. Thankfully, Professor Butterfield hadn’t been too badly hurt and she had forgiven him from under the bandage that had covered half of her youthful face, going as far as to give Wampus twenty points because he had successfully managed to disarm her. A relief though her recovery was, Percival couldn’t feel joy for the earned marks and had instead felt deep shame and guilt every time someone had brought them up – it had been the first time he had hurt someone for real, badly enough they had had to go to the healers.

He had confessed it all to his parents in a letter and had apologized for shaming the family name. He honestly couldn’t tell how he had managed to knock Professor Butterfield out, he only remembered he had terribly wanted to impress the professor and had concentrated on thinking he wanted to disarm her. He had perhaps thought the wand would fly to him like he had seen happen when mom and dad sometimes sparred together, but he had never expected the wand to shoot straight to him while Professor Butterfield went flying against the wall with a sickening crunch.

“They suspect I’ve been using instinctive magic,” he told Newt. “Apparently my magic is too powerful for me to control and that’s why it comes out as powerful bursts whenever I try to use it. Professor Hopp made me a special curriculum because of my ‘special needs’. I now also need to have additional lessons in magic control.”

“That’s good, isn’t it,” Newt sounded encouraging. “You’ll learn to control your magic.”

Percival hoped that was the case, but he couldn’t stifle his worries.

Aurors needed to know how to control their magic and he now worried he would never make it as an auror because of his difficulties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments and kudos! I wrote this because you said you wanted to read more, I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	5. Friends

To be organized.

It helped Percival to control his magic to be organized in all aspects of his life, and so he began to put more effort into being organized, even if James thought it was weird he sorted his socks by color and made his bed neatly before going down for breakfast.

* * *

“Did you know I'm odd?”

Blinking, Percival looked up from where he had been digging up the treasure. They had found the end of the rainbow so now all he needed to do was to dig the treasure up, but who would have thought the end of the rainbow would be in Uncle Charles' office, or that Uncle Charles' office had no floor but simply a grassy ground?

He wiped sweat off his forehead with the hem of his pajama shirt.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Did you know I'm odd?”

Newt was standing with his back to Percival with his shoulders hunched like he was unconsciously trying to look smaller. With his 5,4 feet, he was fast gaining in on Percival in height, but he was still as thin as always, almost scrawny now that he had grown inches but hadn't yet managed to gain neither the weight nor the muscle to match his height.

“Odd?” Percival leant onto his shovel, his sweaty shirt sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He studied the hunched figure carefully and said then, with equal care, “Newt?”

Newt looked at him over his shoulder. The blue eyes were puffy and reddened like he had been crying, even though they had just found a treasure. Then Newt looked away and Percival was left leaning onto the shovel, the treasure underground now irrelevant when compared to the one above it.

“Why would-“ Percival fumbled for the words – he wasn’t that good with feelings, or with talking about them. “Erm. Why would you think you're odd?”

“Because I’ve been informed quite clearly I am,” came the blunt answer. “I’m weird and odd and I behave strangely and speak strangely and have peculiar interests. I’m now wondering if you… if you have always thought me odd, too, but have been too polite to say anything about it. If you met me in the waking world, would you even l-like me? Are you friends with me here in the dreams only because…” Newt sniffed, his voice was soft when he spoke again, “only because you have no other choice, because I’m the only person around and you can’t shake me off?”

Percival could only stare. _What?_

When he had started his third year at Ilvermorny some weeks ago, Newt – initially excited – had claimed he had begun his first at Hogwarts, but in just a few nights after the school year had begun, he had grown quieter, more introverted, meeker, and when Percival had asked about it, he had said he just missed home and would get over it in time. Then the questions had become, gradually, almost like Newt hadn’t even noticed he was asking so many of them: Do you have friends in the waking world, at Ilvermorny? How many friends do you have? How did you make friends with them? Did anyone ever lock you up in a dungeon when you first started at Ilvermorny? No? Did they hide your bag, or your books? What about your clothes? Has anyone ever threatened to break your wand? What does it mean, if someone calls you a “fruitcake”?

Percival wasn’t sure what to make of it all. If he hadn’t known better, he would have suspected Newt was getting bullied at school, but of course that couldn’t be because first of all, who on earth would bully someone as wonderful as Newt, and second of all, Newt was a character in his head and he would _never_ have created a situation in which people were being mean to Newt. Newt was growing up with him as a character in his mind, so of course he, too would go to a wizarding school because it made sense to Percival’s mind, but Percival never would have allowed Newt to get bullied there. Never. His mind would not have come up with something like that, he was sure of it.

Yet, here Newt was, all miserable, so obviously Percival had done _something_ to hurt him. Clearly his subconsciousness was somehow hurting Newt, even if he couldn’t tell what exactly he was doing, let alone how to stop it or how to make things right again. It frustrated him, it made him angry with himself. Seeing Newt’s misery made him ache.

Percival shoved the shovel aside and took briskly the five steps separating him from Newt.

“What are you talking about?”

He went around Newt, stood before him, tried to make eye contact, but Newt wouldn’t look up from his bare toes peeking from under his long pajama bottoms.

There was a teardrop on his long eyelashes.

Percival’s fists clenched – he had done that. Somehow he had made Newt cry, yet again.

“Newt,” his tone was gentle despite of his difficulties to get the words through his tightened throat, “you are my best friend. You know me better than anyone. You are different from the people I know, sure, but that doesn’t make you _odd_ – it makes you _unique_. I don’t know what I’m now doing to hurt you, but if I knew how to stop it, I would, I swear! I’m sorry.”

Newt wiped his eyes with the back of his palm. He still wouldn’t look up.

”I’ll get better in touch with my subconsciousness,” Percival promised, desperately. He was panicking and he knew it – he couldn’t stand to see Newt cry. ”I’ll start practising Occlumency right in the morning when I’ll wake up. It’ll put me better in touch with my subconsciousness and then I can make things better for you here. I’ll learn Occlumency and I’ll figure out what I’m doing to cause you all this hurt, and then I’ll- _I’ll stop doing it_. Everything will be all right, I promise, I’ll make things right again, but please don’t cry.”

The bare toes were given a sad smile.

“You’re so sweet,” Newt said with a sniff. “Sweet and earnest and so sincere it’ll get me in trouble one day, but do please stop blaming yourself for everything. Not everything is your fault, Percival. In fact, most things are not your fault. _This_ ,” he gestured at his teary face, “is not your fault.”

It was, though. No matter what Newt said, he was a character in Percival’s dream and therefore Percival’s mind was in charge of all that happened to him, all that made him smile – and weep.

“I’ll learn to control my mind better,” Percival sounded helpless even to his own ears. “And if there is anything else I can do for you, tell me and I’ll do it.”

Newt didn’t respond. Instead, still sniffling, he went to pick up the disregarded shovel and handed it wordlessly over to Percival before reaching for his own where it was on Uncle Charles’ desk.

It wasn’t until they had dug for several long moments that Newt finally stopped shoveling and spoke again,

“I’ll find you, Percival. I’ll find you, you know. One day.”

Then- then he stepped closer, close, the tips of his ears turning red, and a hesitant moment later Percival was given a quick peck on his cheek.

* * *

Mom and dad thought Occlumency lessons were a marvelous idea when Percival suggested them in a letter. He made the suggestion sound like it was all for his future career as an auror and left his dream friend out of it like he had done for most of his life by now in order to protect him. 

The very same week, dad arranged for his friend, a retired auror to come to teach Percival twice a week. While Mr. Williams turned out to be a patient teacher and while he claimed after some months to be impressed with Percival’s steady improvement and his great potential in ”the art of Occlumency”, it simply wasn’t enough, as Percival’s dream friend was still often sad and downcast and Percival still hadn’t been able to figure out what he was doing to cause it. He needed to get better in touch with his subconsciousness, that was for sure. 

* * *

He must have been doing something right, however, because one night Newt, with his eyes shining, declared he had made a friend. 

Leta Lestrange, said Newt, had been given detention for shaving a classmate’s hair off with a Cutting Spell and she had had to clean up in the Owlery at the same time as Newt had been there tending to Winfrey, a blind eagle owl that had broken his leg by soaring right against one of Hogwart’s high towers. She had been impressed with his work and he had liked her curiosity and she hadn’t minded it when Newt had stuttered and

”And now we are friends!” Newt’s grin was brighter than Percival had seen it in ages. ”I made a friend, Percival! On my own!” 

”That’s wonderful, Newt.” 

Afterwards Percival couldn’t have said which one of them had grinned more widely. 

”She even ate with me today – she left the Slytherin table and came to sit with me. People stared, but she didn’t care and just asked me how Winfrey was doing and I told her he was getting gradually better, even if he is a little grumpy about it all, and then she asked if I like porridge and we talked about breakfast. I said I like eggs and porridge and she said she likes bacon. We both like sausages. Oh, Percy – isn’t this amazing.” 

* * *

Since that night, Percival heard about Leta regularly. She made Newt smile and that was the main thing even if it was a bit odd to have to share Newt. There had always been Theseus, of course, but he was Newt’s brother and a different thing altogether to a friend. Nonetheless, Percival was pleased he had gotten in touch with his subconsciousness enough to make Newt a friend. It made him all the more determined to put even more effort into his private lessons with Mr. Williams.

* * *

Sometime during the spring of Percival’s fifth year – Newt’s third – Newt picked up the most annoying of habits: He began to run away from Hogwarts all on his own, leaving even Leta unaware of his stunts. And as if running away from school wasn’t bad enough on its own, Newt just had to go and run away to a place called _The Forbidden Forest_.

Forbidden.

As in, the forest should have been off limits.

Percival strongly disliked it when people didn’t obey rules, but even more so, he hated it when Newt went on to do something dangerous, like for instance running off to places that held enough danger to have been named _Forbidden_.

Forbidden!

”This has got to stop.”

Percival pinched the bridge of his nose and looked around them in the dreary _Forbidden_ Forest.

What little of the moonlight managed to get through gave their surroundings a silvery glow, and the rising mist only added to the otherwordly feeling of the place. Trees, thick and dense, looked rough from their years of exposure to elements, but Newt seemed completely at home as he swung his legs, sitting on a mossy branch as thick as Professor Hopp’s ever growing waist. He had a… _thing_ , a tiny feline creature in his hand and he was giving the… _thing_ one of his slow, gentle smiles that always made Percival feel taller whenever they were aimed in his direction.

Frankly, Percival would have preferred it if Newt didn’t pick up random creatures he found in forests, particularly in the forbidden kind of forests, but it was an argument so often had he knew by now he had lost the war. Newt was drawn to animals, especially the magical kind, and if Percival was occasionally a little irritated when Newt spent a dream by tending to a horned serpent, or something, instead of adventuring with him, the crux of the matter was, Newt had a right to do with his time as he wished, a dream character or not, and Percival would just have to learn to deal with it.

This time, the creature that had captured Newt's interest was barely the size of a palm, but Percival was still wary of it and had his wand at the ready should it be needed. With its short tail and tufts of black hair on the tips of its pointy ears, with its padded paws and long whiskers on its face, it might have resembled a lynx if it hadn’t been for the fangs and the glowing blue fur. Newt was (only figuratively, thank Lewis) enchanted by the thing, and Percival – wary though he was – let the two of them have their moment, making it meanwhile his mission to keep an eye on their misty surroundings.

”This has got to stop,” he said again, eyes sweeping across the undergrowth – _he had never seen that much knotgrass in one place_ – in case of snakes and other potential dangers Newt might or might not want to cuddle.

Somewhere in the distance, an owl let out two hoots and soon after another answered similarly from closer by. Ancient branches creaked almost as if the trees were discussing amongst themselves, and sometimes dried leaves rustled like something, or someone, was stepping on them. Occasional there was the sound of croaking from an unidentified source and a few times it sounded like something growled, not too far from where they were.

Percival’s unease grew with every passing moment. This dream had potential to turn into a nightmare, he sensed danger, like he had the seven nights prior they had spent there in the forest.

”This has got to stop.”

He gave Newt a glance, only to see the glowing lynx was still getting all the attention.

Lovely.

He gritted his teeth in annoyance.

”Did you hear what I just said?”

No reaction.

”Newt?”

No answer, only cooing sounds, not aimed at him.

”Newt!” Percival’s impatient tone was finally enough to get two pairs of eyes to blink at him. He ignored the staring lynx and focused his attention on Newt, who had tilted his head to the side and was regarding him with a slightly puzzled look on his face like he couldn’t understand why Percival was standing there tensely with a wand at the ready.

”What is it, love?”

The endearnment threw Percival off some, even if Newt had been calling him such names for some time now, but he collected himself quickly.

”This has got to stop, I said.”

The puzzlement on Newt’s face grew.

”What has got to stop?”

Impatiently, Percival gestured around them at the dark forest. He didn’t like the smell of mud and wet moss, not here, not now, not when he was cold and frightened and oblivious to all the threats that could lurk in the shadows behind him. If something attacked, how would he be able to protect Newt, how could he get them to safety when he knew no way out of the forest?

”The dream has to stop?”

”Not the dream,” said Percival, ”but we can’t keep coming here anymore. This place is dangerous, it puts me on edge, and when I wake up, I’m far from well rested from having to stay on guard the whole dream. We should be spending our dreams in our valley or somewhere safer, not in a forest in which our presence is not even allowed, let alone welcomed.”

Newt’s lips tightened. The curly fringe fell in front of his face when he looked down at the glowing lynx, away from Percival. His face was illuminated by the creature, the blue glow making him look paler.

”This is where I fell asleep,” he said in his stubborn manner and pointed towards the foot of the oak where a copy of him suddenly appeared, a copy that seemed to be sleeping on the forest ground curled up under a blanket – as Percival watched, the sleeping version of Newt slowly faded away until it looked like he had never even been there to begin with.

Newt went on, ”While I did cast several shields on me and my surroundings to keep me safe, I’d rather we spend the dream here so I can keep an eye on the forest. You see, I used a potion which allows me – us, as the case stands since we share dreams – to see my surroundings while I sleep. The Surroundings Potion cost me all my savings and then some, so I hope the results will be worth it. I have enough of it for only three more nights, but after the crescent moon has risen up onto the sky in May, as happened last Thursday, unicorns come to these parts to mate, so they should be here any night now, I’m sure of it. I was hoping to observe and I want you to get to see them, too. They really are said to be amazing.”

”You and your unicorns,” fear and discomfort made Percival sound harsher than he had intended and he saw Newt flinch. Instantly hating himself for it, he aimed for patience he didn’t really have, ”For once, can you think of your own safety before creatures. That’s all I ask. Let’s leave this place now, okay? Let’s go somewhere safer. Your safety, Newt, is all I-”

”My safety,” Newt cut him off. Dark spots had appeared on his cheeks like he was suddenly flushed. He was avoiding Percival’s eyes like he always did when he was mad and they argued, his gaze fixed down on the tiny creature instead. ”You don’t even believe I’m real, Percival, do you. You think I only exist in your dreams, so I should be perfectly safe where we are, shouldn’t I. What could possibly hurt me, if I only exist in your mind? After all, it’s not like I’m actually out in the Forbidden Forest without permission, is it, because how could I be when I don’t even exist outside of your head. My life, my family, Leta, all of me are all just figments of your imagination, aren’t they.”

”Don’t talk like that.”

”Why not? It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

”Perhaps,” the word was bitter on Percival’s tongue, ”but don’t speak about yourself like that. I can’t stand to hear it, not from you.”

”I know how that feels,” Newt’s reply was soft, sad. ”You’ve been saying similar things to me for years.”

He didn’t sound angry when he said that, but Percival still felt guilty.

Two more nights Percival spent in the Forbidden Forest, tense and on guard, before the unicorns finally made an appearance. As they rounded the ever present hourglass in which almost a third of the blue sand had trickled into the lower bulb as the dreams had gone by, Percival counted twelve of them, each shining and beautiful, and next to him, Newt could barely contain his excitement.

”They are here!” He clutched onto Percival’s arm, trembling, eyes shining like the sight had made him close to spilling tears. ”Unicorns! Do you see, Percival? Real unicorns! Can you see them? Aren’t they wonderful?”

They were and their beauty was enough to steal away both Percival’s words and his breath.

They looked on in silence for several long moments, enchanted, but as the unicorns began to nuzzle each other, Newt – with tears on his cheek and eyes bright – moved his hold from Percival arm to his hand. The long fingers gave a squeeze, Percival returned it.

”I’m sorry, love, but I must wake up now. I wanted you to see them, too - I wanted us to experience this together - but now I need to wake up. I need to make notes, you see, or I might forget everything. I must see the unicorns in the waking world, too. Do you understand?”

Percival gave a nod, not really thinking the question through, watching the stunning creatures as he was.

A forest forbidden or not, all was now well. It was a good dream, he decided, his finger securely around Newt’s warm hand.

 _”I'm waking up, now. Sweet dreams, Percival,”_ was a distant whisper in the next instance, coming from somewhere amongst the treetops, and Percival, surprised, looked up to see how Newt could possibly have spoken from up there – when suddenly his fingers closed around nothing and Newt’s hand was no longer there holding onto his own.

Newt had vanished – and with him went the unicorns and their brightness.

Percival now found himself standing alone in the middle of a dark forest, cold and with a sense of growing dread. Low growling came from behind him, glowing yellow eyes stared at him from the shadows all around, and as an unfamiliar voice shouted, ”Evil wins!” a tall figure with red eyes was suddenly towering over him.

It was Grandmother with fangs, or perhaps Professor Gumpkin with a bloody pointer – Percival couldn’t really tell, but suddenly his wand disappeared from his pocket and he couldn’t sense his magic – _He had lost his magic!_ – and as the red-eyed figure reached out a hand towards him, he twirled around and ran.

It was a nightmare after all, had turned into one when Newt had left. It had always been Newt who kept the nightmares at bay.

Percival spent the rest of the nightmare by being chased, the forest around him now a bog in which he sank knee deep with every step he took. Panting so hard his throat had gone dry, he hoped Newt had gotten away, that Newt was safe, that Newt wasn’t being chased, that Newt… that Newt…

Newt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, I know Occlumency isn't exactly used for that, please forgive me.
> 
> Thank you to all the people who left me a comment or kudos! I really appreciate it! I read all the comments even if I'm terrible at answering to them.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!


	6. Crossroads

Percival’s fingers overlapped when he wrapped them around Newt’s wrist, even if Newt at fourteen was now just a little shorter than him. The sight of his hand wrapped securely around the thin wrist had something churning in the bottom of his belly, pleasantly, and Percival couldn’t look away. He studied the wrist.

Delicate. And _so fine_.

Tightening his hold – Newt didn’t resist – he wondered if they could-

”Are you attempting Palmistry?”

Like scalded, Percival dropped the wrist where he had been holding it gently in his hand.

Lewis. He had been doing it again, hadn’t he. He had been running his eyes along the lean body and touching Newt like it was his right – he was fairly certain he had even been rubbing the pulse point of Newt’s wrist with his thumb. What in Merlin’s name was wrong with him?

Awkward, Percival took a step back to put distance between them and bowed his head.

“No, I was merely holding your hand. I apologize.”

”For what?” Newt sounded confused more so than appalled which suited Percival just fine because he was confused, too, as well as appalled with his own behavior.

”I-”

Lost for words, Percival ran a hand through his hair – he didn’t know how to explain himself. All he knew was, he wanted to be close to Newt, as close as it was possible to get, and he wanted to… wanted to…

What was the matter with him?

”I…” he tried again, letting his hand drop to his side after making a helpless gesture. ”I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

”You didn’t,” and Newt said it like he meant it, too. His eyes were very round and the look in them was equally puzzled as it was fond. ”I wasn’t uncomfortable. You don’t need to apologize for holding my hand, Percival. In fact, I quite like holding yours.”

As if to emphasize his words, Percival’s hand was taken into a warm grip.

Percival didn’t pull himself free, but – with his ears burning and his heart pounding fast in his chest – he was suddenly quite unable to look Newt in the eye, although his gaze did seem to find its way to Newt’s other body parts just fine.

Newt was… beautiful.

* * *

On a Tuesday afternoon, Percival made the mistake of using wandless magic at Charms where Professor Gumpkin could see. The predictable outcome was, he was accused of “showing off” and was given detention. It was useless to argue wandless magic came by now natural to him – the professor claimed such a thing was “frankly impossible” – or to even point out all his other professors encouraged him to practice using it, for Professor Gumpkin had been looking for reasons to give him detention for weeks now.

As Charms was the last lesson they had that day, Professor Gumpkin told him to stay behind for his punishment while the rest of the students left the classroom with glances of sympathy sent in Percival’s way and a few daring looks of anger in the professor’s. James – looking between Percival and Professor Gumpkin with an inscrutable look on his face – was the last to leave. In fact, he might not have left at all hadn’t Percival used an ounce of wandless magic surreptitiously to push him out of the room before Professor Gumpkin got any ideas about other students needing detention, too.

An hour later, Percival’s arms were burning and he wanted little else than to let go off the books. That was, however, exactly what he couldn’t do because Professor Gumpkin would have then ordered him to repeat the punishment, the whole hour of it without a doubt, and he had no intention whatsoever to spend yet another hour by standing with his arms at his sides holding a thick book in each hand, his palms turned towards the floor, while Professor Gumpkin read the newspaper at his desk and gave him the occasional triumphant smirk.

Glancing at the clock – two minutes left – Percival set his jaw, gritted his teeth, and glared at the spot on the wall he was supposed to be looking at. He hadn’t made a sound, he never did when Professor Gumpkin punished him, but after the first half an hour his arms had been burning so badly he had almost dropped the books, and so he had quickly put a wandless, wordless arm-bind onto them to keep them stiff even if his strength left him. Now his arms were still holding the books, yes, but the burning of his muscles was growing worse by each moment.

One minute.

Sweat trickled down the side of his face, down his neck all the way to his collar. He wanted to swear, to spit out curses, but instead he stood still in silence and took the punishment without so much as a grunt.

Finally, the bell rang, shrill and sharp, and once the echo of it had died down, there was a deep sigh and the sound of rustling paper, as Professor Gumpkin folded _The Charm_ , and a moment later, the chair scraped against the floor. _Tap tap tap_ , Professor Gumpkin walked into Percival’s line of sight, tapping his knee with the pointer like he was in a habit of doing.

The tiny eyes squinted at Percival from below the strong brow that made Professor Gumpkin resemble a gorilla. The lips pursed like the professor was dissatisfied with what he saw.

”No tears,” he said after a moment of intense scrutiny. The tapping – tap tap tap – became faster, more nervous, and lost what little rhythm it had had. ”It tells me you aren’t actually sorry for what you did. Put the books down, Mr. Graves, and present me with your arms.”

Simultaneously burning and numb though his arms were, Percival still felt it when the pointer, coming flying down time after time, broke the skin of his bared arms.

He refused to shed tears, despite of the pain, because Professor Gumpkin was right – he was not sorry for what he had done.

He had been punished unfairly.

”Shit,” said William – whom James must have fetched – when Percival walked out of the classroom some ten minutes later with both of his arms bleeding freely. Without a word, he marched straight pass his friends, and William and James hurried to follow him.

When Percival reached the first empty hallway a reasonable distance away from the Charms’ classroom, he finally allowed the pained gasps to come. Leaning against the wall for support, he crumpled down to his knees, the tears of pain finally spilling over.

” _Shit_ ” said William again, kneeling down beside him, hands hovering awkwardly above the bleeding arms, and the word echoed from Percival’s lips. William’s hands finally found their place on his shoulders, while James stood stiffly before them as if to guard them from anyone who might choose to enter the hallway by chance, from professors and students alike.

“I’ll tell my parents about this,” said William with finality, gripping Percival’s shoulders tightly like he was afraid to let go. “Perhaps they could get him fired. If this is how he treats good, conscientious students simply for being gifted, he doesn’t deserve to be a professor.”

Percival didn’t say anything, he barely listened to what William was saying. Professor Gumpkin had taken his wand – _“If you insist on using wandless magic, you won’t need this anymore, Mr. Graves, will you.”_ – and it now took all his concentration to close his wounds wandlessly. Healing wasn’t easy. He didn’t have a natural talent for it, not like his dream friend had.

That evening, William sent an owl to his father, who in turn told Percival’s mom all about what had happened. The very next morning, mom came to the school, took a careful look at Percival’s scarred arms, then kissed Percival’s cheek much to his embarrassment – and disappeared into Professor Gumpkin’s office with her softly rustling chiffon dress and a cool look on her face.

Percival never did find out what mom and Professor Gumpkin talked about, but by noon, he got his wand back and Professor Gumpkin handed in his resignation much to the collective joy of the students.

(For all things considered, Percival was glad William’s father had had the sense to go about it to mom rather than dad. If dad had been the one to come to Ilvermorny to talk to Professor Gumpkin, he might have soon after been arrested for assault, hot-tempered as he sometimes could be when Percival’s safety was concerned, which would have done nothing good for his career as an auror.)

Because mom had gotten the wand back, Percival could now forget all about his plan to challenge Professor Gumpkin into a wandless duel over it. He tried not to be too disappointed, even if he had looked forward to roughing up the sadistic professor some after all the wizard had done to him and his school mates.

* * *

At sixteen, more often than not, Percival grew hard in his dreams.

Mr. Cunningham – in his dry, matter-of-fact manner with the human biology book open before him on the page of male genitalia and reproduction – had explained to him ages ago erections occurred ”when the _corpora cavernosa_ in the penis filled with blood due to brain signaling to nerves an erection was needed in case of a chance to copulate”, but Percival was nonetheless mortified enough about it to not allow Newt to ride with him anymore. It really was for the best because even if he hadn’t been stiff in his pajamas when mounting a griffin or a unicorn or whatever they were riding on that dream, Newt clinging to his waist and puffing hot breaths against his neck – or, _Lewis_ , Newt bouncing up and down in front of him basically in his lap – were sure ways for his penis to take its cue – and apparently, Newt’s proximity was enough to convince his brain to signal his nerves an erection was needed.

It was mortifying, and Percival feared Newt’s reaction should he ever find out: Newt might take it as a betrayal, might be disgusted, might tell Percival it was too much, that he only thought of Percival as a friend, a brother, and could not spend dreams with someone who gave such a physical reaction to him. Consequently, Newt might leave, might vanish, and that thought alone was always enough to wither whatever hardness his proximity had prompted.

Then there was also the other frightening scenario, the one that had Percival’s heart racing and his knees grow weak – the scenario in which Newt would not be disgusted or feel betrayed, the one in which he would be _pleased_ by Percival’s clear fondness for him: Perhaps Newt wouldn’t mind at all, perhaps he would be flattered, perhaps he would encourage such feelings. Perhaps – and this possibility had Percival feeling dizzy with giddiness – perhaps he would even admit to feeling similarly.

Sighing to himself, Percival gave a half weary, half hopeful look towards the den in which Newt was crouched over something that resembled a large butterfly. The thing had apparently scraped its wing and Newt was now spreading his healing ointment onto it carefully, gently, saying comforting words in a soft voice.

The thing caressed Newt’s face with its antennae as if to study him by touch. Newt didn’t seem to mind.

Standing close by in case he would be needed, Percival sighed again and looked away, closed his eyes and turned his face towards the warmth of the Sun. Mild wind caressed his face like the antennae had caressed Newt’s and brought with it the mix of lilac scent and the stench of dung always present near animals.

It was a nice change to spend the dream in an outside setting for once, as for several consequent dreams before Percival had found himself standing in empty classrooms polishing trophies and swiping floors. Apparently, or so Newt claimed, Newt was dreaming of detention because he had been given two months worth of detention for having been caught sneaking out of the school premises at night as well as for other “minor offences”. He was a bright student academically, doing well in all his subjects with the exception of History of Magic (he didn’t care to recall dates or the names of important historical figures – Lewis, Newt hadn’t even known the catalyst for the giant wars had been the assassination of Dirilus Opportunt!), but he challenged the school rules and the customary practices with his eccentric views enough for some of his professors to now consider him a nuisance.

Apparently, at Hogwarts, if you were a nuisance, you were made to sweep floors and polish trophies. It was better than the detentions at Ilvermorny, that was for sure, and the monotonic rhythm of it had been almost relaxing – up until it had become despairingly boring after the third dream or so.

When Percival opened his eyes, the butterfly was fluttering its wings as if to test their strength. It seemed to find them satisfactory because soon enough it was flying above the treetops of their valley, joining the butterfly flock high up in the sky. Newt followed the flock with his gaze up until it disappeared into the horizon. Only then did he meet Percival’s eyes.

Offering Percival one of his quiet smiles, Newt stood up, brushing the dirt absent-mindedly off his pajama bottoms. He reached out a hand and Percival was by his side in an instance, taking the offered hand in his, gently, with the great respect such an offer required. The fingers were long and strong, the wrist delicate and fine, and Percival was acutely aware of the warm, calloused skin against his.

They proceeded to walk along the familiar paths of their valley, hand in hand, Newt humming something cheerful all the while, his curly hair tousled… eyes bright… freckles… long limbs…

The perfect angle between the slim back and the bottom hidden under the thin layer of his pajamas looked welcoming, Percival wanted to touch it, wanted to put his hand there, lift the shirt some so he would have access to the skin beneath, and…

And then, yes, then Percival’s brain decided it was the right time to start sending signals to his nerves.

Horrified, realizing he had an erection yet again, he was quick to withdraw his hand and to turn his back to Newt, who – by the sounds of it – also halted in his steps. The sound of humming was no longer there and he could feel Newt’s eyes on him.

Ashamed, Percival fumbled for something to say.

“I’ll sit down for a bit,” he blurted out and did exactly that. With his knees tucked close to his chest, the erection was carefully hidden from Newt’s sight. “My legs are tired.”

Still standing, Newt gave him a confused look, but sat down next to him without a question. Only, Newt’s body pressed against his side wasn’t helping the situation any, and so Percival scooted left to put some distance between them. It was impossible to do that without Newt’s notice, and as Newt looked at the newly created gab between the two of them, something in his expression closed off.

The fringe fell in front of the round eyes and Newt didn’t resume humming the rest of the dream.

It went on like that for several dreams after: Newt would aim for physical contact, to hold his hand or something, and Percival would quickly excuse himself from the situation as soon as an erection made its presence obvious. That was awkward on its own, but Newt’s faltering expressions every time Percival withdrew were enough to grip Percival’s heart with guilt.

“I apologize,” he said after once again detaching his hand from Newt’s in order to sit down to hide his growing erection.

This time, there was a long moment of silence before Newt said anything.

“For holding my hand, I presume,” Newt’s voice was carefully neutral when he eventually spoke. “That’s all you were doing, after all, so what else could you be apologizing for.”

“I’m not apologizing for holding your hand.” The denial was instinctive, but Percival didn’t want to lie to Newt, so he admitted, reluctantly, “But for something relating to that.”

“Please, Percival. I know precisely what you are apologizing for.”

Startled, Percival looked up, but Newt wouldn’t meet his eyes from behind the fringe.

Percival hesitated.

“You… do?”

“Of course,” Newt sounded uncharacteristically bitter. “How could I not. You have made it obviously clear, and I don’t blame you for- for how you see me. That I understand, it’s natural. I would only ask that you would admit as much to my face instead of making me feel like a fool.”

Percival wrapped his arms around his knees, guilt consuming him. So Newt had noticed. No wonder he was angry.

Not only angry, Newt was disgusted.

Disgusted with him.

The realization was painful enough to tighten Percival’s throat, to make it hard for him to breathe, but his pain would always be second to Newt’s feelings, and so he managed, “I never meant to make you feel like a fool, Newt. I’m sorry.”

Newt’s expression gentled, but he still wouldn’t meet Percival’s eyes. Percival found himself no longer able to look at the familiar face either and so he focused his eyes on his knees, on the stripes of his pajamas. His toes dug deep into the grass like he could hide alongside them.

“I know you didn’t mean it, love,” Newt said, softly, sadly, “but nonetheless, you are not cruel, so I’m asking you to just say it to me instead of letting me live in pretense. Please, Percival.”

“You are not cruel either,” Percival managed from his tightening throat, “so if you already know, why do you insist on me saying it?”

“I need to hear it from you to believe it.”

Percival shot Newt an incredulous look. He would need to say he had an erection in order for Newt to believe it? That couldn’t be right. Maybe they weren’t talking about the same thing, after all.

“What exactly do you want me to say?” he asked, carefully. “You know I’m not good with putting my feelings into words, so just give me the words and I’ll say them to you.”

Newt stood there with his jaw clenched like he expected to be punched, either with a fist or with words, and met Percival’s eyes with some difficulty.

“Admit you can’t s-stand to touch me because you find me repulsive.”

Stunned, Percival climbed up to his feet. The erection was still there, stubborn as ever, but that couldn’t be helped.

“You are not repulsive!” his voice left no room for question. “You are- you are-” he couldn’t find a word suitable enough, so he settled for, “ _beautiful_ , _wonderful_ , and I do stand to touch you, I’m not _repulsed_.”

“Then how come you nowadays always pull away when I touch you?”

“Because, erm.”

This was difficult, but the truth was vital. Even if Newt would be disgusted by the admission, he deserved to know the truth instead of being led to believe he was repulsive enough for his closest friend to avoid touching him.

Percival squared his shoulders and took a deep breath.

“Because I’m so attracted to you your touch gives me an erection.”

To emphasize his words, he made a gesture down at himself, at his stiffness.

With his shoulders drooping, Newt’s eyes closed and he turned his face away. Then the words seemed to hit him and his eyes shot open, his head twirled into Percival’s direction.

“What?”

He was blinking furiously.

“Oh. You're- _Oh._ ”

His eyes travelled further south. They widened when they reached their target and pink spots quickly appeared on his cheeks.

“ _Oh._ I…”

For a long while, Newt simply stared and Percival, awkward, felt himself growing harder under the not-at-all-unpleasant scrutiny.

Then Newt looked down at himself. Percival followed the gaze.

“Oh,” and this time it was Percival who said it, and not a moment later he woke up in his bed with a gasp and a racing heart. For once ignoring the pen and the notebook floating there above him in order to reach into his underwear, he came to the image of his dream friend looking down at his own stiffness with eyes wide and surprised.

* * *

For the next several dreams, they were both extremely polite to each other and talked about anything but what was mostly on Percival’s mind. Newt still touched him, held his hand and leant against him, and Percival no longer withdrew, and when he inevitably got an erection, he didn’t hide it and no-one made a comment about it. It was _his_ dream after all, dang it, and Newt didn’t mind, besides.

“What a cloudy dream we’re having,” Newt said instead, even if his face was flushed and his eyes flickered down to Percival’s groin like he was trying to be secretive about looking.

“Indeed,” Percival cleared his throat, studying Newt’s freckles rather than the sky. “Perhaps it will rain, later.”

“If it does, we can always dream up umbrellas.”

“Indeed, indeed. We can always dream.”

* * *

One dream a week later they were standing on top a tall tower. Newt claimed it was the Astronomy Tower and the tallest of all of Hogwarts’ towers, but regardless of what it was, the views from there were stunning. Stars, so plentiful and bright they left Percival in awe, twinkled far above in the dark-blue sky, and the half Moon lit up the landscape, the school yard and the silvery lake nearby and in the distance the dark forest that seemed to go on forever.

“I had detention here earlier tonight,” said Newt, looking around the tower rather than at the magnificent views. “Who would have thought Professor Eyesore would have a problem with me releasing a few pixies here during the lesson – they needed the fresh air and pixies love stars and they are fully calm and reasonable when under star light.”

A pause.

“Well, mostly calm, anyway.”

“A bit like you, then,” Percival teased. “Perfectly controllable and pliant, except for when you’re awake or at sleep.”

Newt crossed his arms on his chest and pretended to scowl, but his twinkling eyes betrayed his mirth.

“When I’m awake? Does that mean you finally believe I’m real?”

Already regretting his choice of words, Percival looked from the twinkling eyes up to the twinkling stars, avoiding giving a straight answer to the question, “You’re as real as my dreams feel to me.”

“No, love, I’m as real as you are.”

There was a pause, and then, hesitantly, Newt went on, ”Perhaps I could actually prove that to you, too.”

Percival wasn’t particularly invested in any experiments, but played along to humor Newt,

“How so?”

Another pause.

“You need to close your eyes and then I’ll show you.”

Percival looked from the stars to Newt. He looked nervous but determined, perhaps a bit scared.

“How can you show me anything if my eyes are closed?”

“Close them and you’ll find out soon enough.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Percival crossed his arms on his chest and leant his back against the tower wall before closing his eyes.

“Now what?”

“Um,” Newt was suddenly close enough for his hesitation to manifest itself as a nervous puff of air against Percival’s cheek. “Just, you know. Keep your eyes closed. And don’t move.”

All of a sudden, Percival’s heart was racing. Slowly, he uncrossed his arms, but kept his eyes closed. He licked his lips, nervously.

“What are you doing, Newt?”

“Nothing,” came the quick answer, a hair away from his lips, from the feels of it. “Can you please keep your mouth still for a bit?”

“What for?”

“Just do it, please.”

Percival did as requested. He stilled himself, stopped talking, didn’t move his lips. He stood there patiently, quietly, with the cold stone wall on his back and, even if they weren’t actually touching, Newt close enough to his front to radiate warmth. He could smell Newt’s hair, the soap on his skin.

Their noses rubbed against each other briefly, Newt let out a nervous chuckle. There was a light touch on Percival’s lips and then Newt’s lips were gliding against his. The stars and the landscape instantly flew from Percival’s mind and suddenly all there was left was Newt and the lips touching his, the soft lips he was kissing. His hands had come to Newt’s waist, he was running them along the skinny sides, and Newt was holding his face between his hands, tenderly, as they kissed under the open sky.

“Does this feel real?”

Newt’s question was as soft as the kisses he pressed on Percival’s lips, but the answer remained the same – yes, by Lewis, it felt real. Newt wasn’t real, but kissing him felt more real than anything Percival had before experienced.

“Love,” Newt said again when Percival didn’t answer, “does this feel real to you?”

“I don’t dare to answer,” Percival whispered. “I know I’ll wake up, if I do,” but that didn’t help him because soon after Newt vanished with a surprised mumble about it being “the morning already”.

With Newt gone, Percival was left alone on top of the high tower with a racing heart and wet lips he couldn’t stop touching with trembling fingers. That night, there were no nightmares, for Percival soared up to the sky like an eagle, about to burst with happiness, and flew up over the earth among the stars, thinking of Newt and kissing.

* * *

They kissed often in the dreams that followed. Small pecks, gliding lips, occasional deep kisses that left Percival hungry and yearning and unwilling to let go of Newt.

* * *

“Leta tried to kiss me today,” Newt said on the night of Percival’s seventeenth birthday, as the two of them were grooming a pair of purple bear cubs. “I got so startled I ran away. She laughed at me later when she found me hiding in a cupboard and mocked me for all it was worth, but I could tell she was also hurt.”

Percival hummed, stifling the instant jealousy the thought of Newt kissing someone else had awoken in him.

“Why did you get startled?" he asked as casually as he was able to. "You’re a good kisser.”

“Perhaps,” Newt looked at him from under his lashes, “but I only ever want to really kiss you.”

Their eyes met and held. Eventually Percival swallowed and broke the eye contact.

In all honesty, he, too, would have preferred it if they could have only ever kissed each other, but while that went for the dream world, the waking world was a different matter altogether. He couldn’t restrict his life to his dreams, even if he loved Newt dearly, and if he ever found anyone he would truly be interested in in the waking world, he would need to get over a dream character and pursue the real relationship, regardless of how difficult that would be.

He now told Newt as much, gently, apologetically, only to be in the receiving end of a thoughtful if slightly hurt look.

They worked in silence, the cubs reveling in the attention they were given.

Eventually Newt spoke, “Kiss whomever you like in the meanwhile, but I’ll find you one day, you know. I don’t think I can ever love another like I love you, but if you have a family by the time our paths cross in the waking world, I promise you I will leave you and your family be, I will not complicate things or get in the way. You won’t ever even know I was there and you can keep on believing I only exist in your mind.”

“You don’t only exist in my mind,” Percival promised, “but also in my heart.”

Newt smiled down at the cub he was grooming.

“You’re so sweet, Percival. Thank you.”

After a moment he added, “I won’t be giving you up easily, mind you. Up until you have a family, I will keep on looking for you and trying to prove to you I exist. I can't ask you to promise me anything when you don't even believe I exist, but... I will find you, one day.”

* * *

After startling awake at Divination – the one class he only ever attended because William was interested in Divination and had pleaded for him to take the class with him – Percival, still half asleep, made the mistake of mentioning his dream character when Professor Bloomworth asked drily if he had had nice dreams during the theoretical part of the lesson. Percival didn’t give any details or even describe his feelings for his dream friend, but apart from William, his classmates still found the whole thing hilarious since apparently everyone had believed him incapable of dreaming - Percival Graves had no sense of humor or imagination, people said when they thought he didn't hear.

That very evening, he began to receive letters from his schoolmates who claimed in the letters to be his dream friend. Initially he was stunned, but once he realized the letters were all just a part of a prank, he charmed all the letters addressed to him containing the words “dream”, “dream friend” and “dream character” to destroy themselves without him having to ever even glance at them, furious with himself for having revealed such private information about himself in such a public setting, furious for having let himself to momentarily hope - to believe - the dream friend could be real. Such hopes only led to hurt and ruin, chasing after an imaginary character would drive him into madness.

“Your dreams shouldn’t be made fun of,” James said with a deep frown after yet another letter burst into flames on the breakfast table. “Dreams can hold significant meaning, occurring ones in particular. If you have an occurring dream character, you should look into the matter more closely.”

* * *

Percival looked into Newt’s eyes, closely. It might not have been exactly what James had intended, but perhaps it would reveal something to him, nonetheless.

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Trying to figure you out, is all.”

* * *

“I’ve been trying to write to you,” said Newt, one dream. “Of course, I can’t recall your name after waking up, but I’ve been addressing them to a ‘Seventeen-Year-Old Wampus Boy at Ilvermorny Who Can Do Wandless Magic and Has Auror Parents’. That should narrow things down. Have you really not received any?”

“I receive a lot of letters,” Percival said, vaguely.

He didn’t like the way the pranks were starting to affect his subconsciousness, and he was quick to change the subject. Newt tried to talk about it with him in the later dreams, too, but with not much success after Percival made it a new habit of his to shut him up with a deep kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments&kudos, I really appreciate them!
> 
> I hope someone is still reading. :D Please do let me know, if you are, so I'll have a reason to continue writing.


	7. The Heart of Crystal

”Eighteen, huh.”

Dad nursed his gin, a wistful look on his face as he regarded Percival from behind the spectacles he now needed to wear in order to see clearly – due to a curse having caught him off guard, he argued, although Percival knew his worsening eyesight was not because of magic but because of ageing. Dad was fifty-two and to an eighteen-year-old that was a lot.

”And the highest ranking student of your year, I hear. No,” dad raised his gin glass to silence whatever dismissing remark Percival might have made. ”Let your old man be proud of you, son.”

”Hardly old.” Percival could feel the corners of his lips tugging upwards into a smile. ”Only caught off guard by a curse, remember?”

The brown eyes behind the spectacles were gentle.

”Indeed, my pride and joy, for it does catch you off guard, the growing old, and the inevitable loss of health and strength many would call a curse of its own right.”

Taking a sip of his gin, dad turned to look towards the river gleaming golden in the slowly setting Sun. They were sitting on the porch, enjoying the lazy summer evening, the vast Graves estates opening up before them while the doors to the sitting room were open behind them and the gramophone inside played piano music by Chopin (who had been such a famous wizard even the no-maj folk still acknowledged his musical talents even if they were unaware of his daring potion research that had ended up killing him young but had greatly contributed to the field of potions).

Tilly was tending to the rose bushes in the distance and mom could be seen reading on the deck in her hammock suspended in the air by her precise charmwork.

Smiling, dad took his wand from where he always kept it in his shoulder holster and – with a whispered spell – sent a bubble to mom’s direction. The bubble burst with a loud pop near her ear and when she looked up, startled, in its place was a small flower as white as her summer dress. Her delighted, surprised laughter echoed in the quiet garden and she waved at them, smiling, and as they returned her wave, she put the flower behind her ear, among her fair locks, and then went back to reading, the smile still on her lips.

”The passing of time might have taken me off guard because I have grey in my hair and my little boy sits next to me as a young man,” said dad after a moment, still looking in her direction, ”but it is a privilege to get to grow old with a lady as wonderful as your mother, Percival. It will be an honor, if I can one day hold her wrinkled hand in my equally wrinkled hand and compare our liver spots.”

Buzzing, a fat bumblebee landed onto Percival’s hand, the one holding onto the glass containing the gin dad had poured him some minutes ago. Percival let it be and soon it flew away, buzzing off to the sunflowers by the porch, leaving Percival to regard his glass silently.

The Graves drank _Charm of Lewis_ , dad had said, and Percival could discover his taste for it too now that he was old enough to drink.

At eighteen, he was indeed now old enough to drink – responsibly and within reason, of course, because he was to become no drunk, that had been made abundantly clear by Great Uncle Ephraim, who had been an alcoholic and still haunted the wine cellar, much to the Graves’ shame. It was considered a great failure they hadn’t been able to save one of their own from such an abusive lover as alcohol. Then again, every grown Graves, regardless of their marital status, had one lover and either that lover was alcohol – as in the case of poor Uncle Ephraim – or work, and as Aunt Sibilla would often say in her snarky manner from her portrait in the hallway of the third floor, Uncle Ephraim had shunned work, so it was only natural he had been partial to the bottle.

Dad cleared his throat.

“It’s important to know Protection Spells, you know,” he said, eyeing his gin intently. “I believe it’s the high time for us to have a discussion about them, a young man as you now are. I know several pretty effective ones. I’ll teach them all to you, so pay attention, will you.”

And teach dad did, and even though the spells weren’t to offer protection from an attack, they would be of use, Percival mused, if he ever would decide to get himself a bed partner.

There was even a spell for lubrication which dad now described to him, coughing awkwardly every once in a while – despite of his discomfort, he was clearly determined to prepare his son for all possible situations.

“My father - may he rest in peace - never taught me any of this,” he said once the discussion was coming to an end and they had drunk most of the bottle of _Charm of Lewis_ between the two of them. “I had to learn it all on my own, but I rather you learn it from me than from some unreliable source. Every generation should be better than the last and I want you to be better than I ever was, Percival – and not only in the bedroom.”

Perhaps it was the gin, but the joke made them both burst out laughing loud enough for a startled sparrow to take flight from a nearby bush.

* * *

“You don’t _have to_ become an auror just because you’re a Graves, my little eagle,” mom told him on the September morning he was set to go back to Ilvermorny to start his last year with the Headboy badge gleaming on his chest. “I’m a Moreau and in my family not everyone is an auror. My uncle, for instance, used to run a successful hat business back in Bordeaux. You’re half Moreau, Percival, and you don’t need to become an auror because of your father’s family, if you would rather be something else, even a hat maker.”

“I know, mom,” and Percival meant that, too, “but I’ve always wanted to be an auror. I don’t feel pressured to become one, rather I _want_ to become one.”

Mom sighed and caressed his cheek.

“Oh how I sometimes wish you wouldn’t,” she admitted with a sad smile. “It’s a dangerous line of work. Did you know no Graves apart from your grandmother has yet managed to live old enough to retire? It’s like a curse – every Graves who has made magical law enforcement their career has died in the line of duty and even your grandmother was poisoned and wouldn’t be allowed to die a natural death. I wouldn’t want that to you, not to my treasure. Wouldn’t you still consider engineering, Percival? You would be marvelous at it!”

Out of respect for his mother, Percival promised to consider other career options as well, even if his heart was already set on a career in magical law enforcement.

* * *

“I love you, Percival.”

“I love you, too, mom.”

He kissed his mother’s cheek by way of farewell and clasped dad’s hand in a firm grip.

“Have a safe journey, Mr. Graves,” said dad as they shook hands. “And try to have some fun, too – it’s your last school year, after all.”

“I will, Mr. Graves,” said Percival with a bit of a bow. Straightening his back, he then tilted his head towards the side table where dad’s glasses laid, forgotten. “And don’t you let any curses take you off guard, old man, or soon we’ll have you using an ear trumpet as well.”

“What an insolent youth you are.”

Dad grinned and pulled him into a hug.

“Look after yourself, my pride and joy.”

“You too, dad.”

* * *

The first night of February, Percival knew instantly something was wrong when Newt wasn’t there to welcome him to the dream world like he was in a habit of doing.

Cautiously, with his wand at the ready, he looked around in their dandelion valley in order to locate Newt and to determine the source of his growing discomfort.

The dandelions were withering under the dangerously dark grey sky on which lightnings flashed, followed closely after by the roar of thunder like the storm was determined to break the sky in two. The once green grass had gone dry and died, and in the place of the blooming valley there was now something resembling a rocky desert. Despite of the sweltering heat, their river had a thick layer of oil-black ice on it, and the creatures, those they had looked after together, had all vanished.

Nothing in the valley was alive. Their dandelion valley had died.

For a few shocked moments, Percival could only stare. Then the alarm hit him and he looked around with growing horror: everything seemed dead, so where was-

“Newt!”

There was no response.

Worry and the sandy heat of the desert made it harder for him to breathe, but Percival hurried his steps nonetheless, keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings, flexing the fingers that weren’t holding onto the wand.

He was ready to fight. He would hex anything and anyone who tried to keep him from finding Newt. By Lewis, if someone had done something to-

“Newt!” he tried calling out again, only for the boom of the thunder to drown his voice. “NEWT!”

Ever since Percival could recall, their dandelion valley had been a place of safety and calm for them, a haven where Newt took him away from his nightmares. No nightmare had ever before touched their valley, but this time one clearly had, for this had to be a nightmare, not a dream, a full nightmare, with the lightnings attempting to break the sky, with the earth dead under his feet – and with Newt missing.

Yet Percival wasn’t terrified, at least not for his own sake, and felt more determined than fearful. He had a mission – their valley was no longer safe, he therefore needed to get Newt away from there before a lightning struck either one of them. Now, there was no room for fear. Now, there was only the mission.

But where was Newt? Where was-

“NEWT!”

No response other than the roar of thunder.

Eventually, it was the hour glass that pointed the way to Newt, for when Percival approached it and its slowly trickling sand, he saw Newt curled up beside it.

With his heart in his throat, Percival ran the last few steps and leapt down onto his knees next to the still body.

Was Newt breathing? What had happened? Newt was alive, wasn’t he? What had happened? What had happened?

“Newt? Newt!”

Percival shook the still body, desperate, and – _thank Merlin and the stars_ – Newt’s eyes opened.

“Newt, love?” Percival leant over him to study Newt’s breathing, to make sure it was steady. “Are you hurt?”

Newt’s hands were closed carefully around something that shone brightly from between his fingers, and the blue eyes fixed their gaze on it, unblinking.

“Newt?” Percival hesitated. “Can you hear me?”

Newt didn’t look up. There wasn’t blood or any injuries visible nor did a diagnostical spell reveal anything to be wrong with him, but he was shivering, his hands were trembling, and Percival – spitting out a curse – was quick to dream up a blanket, the one in his room back home, the wool one mom had ordered him specially from Norway when he had had the flu on December, the one that smelt of home. With great care, he then wrapped it around Newt’s shivering body.

“Newt, pet, can you hear me?”

“I can,” Newt’s voice was barely a whisper, but Percival let out a relieved breath nonetheless – at least Newt was somewhat lucid.

“Are you hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Can you sit up?”

Sniffling, Newt gave a brief nod and Percival helped him up into a sitting position, with some effort. He then adjusted the blanket and wrapped it carefully around Newt, who kept on sniffling behind his fringe, head bowed in a clear picture of misery.

“It’s breaking, Percival,” Newt said when the blanket was again there around his thin shoulders. “It’s breaking and I can’t stop it. It’s _breaking_.”

Percival rubbed comforting circles on the trembling back through the blanket and kept his voice as soothing as he knew how to when he asked, “What is breaking? Tell me and I’ll fix it for you, pet.”

With a sniffle, Newt opened his hands. In the shelter of his palms, he was holding a crystal heart, one shining and bright, but as Percival looked more closely, he saw it had fractures in it. The fractures were deep and spreading and it looked like the heart might shatter at any given time.

“It’s breaking,” Newt said again in a teary voice. “My heart is breaking, Percival. And I can’t stop it.”

“Is that why you’re weeping?”

“Yes.”

The crystal heart clearly mattered a lot to Newt, and therefore it wasn’t now the time to ask questions about what had happened or where the heart had come from. No. Now was the time for action.

Efficiently, Percival put his wand aside for the time being, rolled his sleeves up and, with care, reached for the heart in Newt’s trembling hands.

“Let me help. I’ll fix it for you.”

Newt didn’t resist when he took the heart. With the occasional sniffle, he looked on as Percival did his best to put it back together.

“ _Reparo._ ”

That didn’t work, and Percival ended up using all the spells and charms he could think of, but when those didn’t help either, he reached for the core of his magic and allowed it to run free into the crystal heart to mend it, to put it back together.

Only, not even his instinctive magic could fix the heart and so the heart remained fractured.

As Percival held it, helplessly, the fractures kept on spreading – until suddenly a piece of the heart broke off. Before he managed to catch it, the piece shattered into thousands of small shards and the shards vanished into thin air before ever hitting the ground, long before he had the chance to collect them with his magic.

Stunned, Percival was left holding the now broken heart with a piece of it missing, while Newt began to shiver anew under the blanket.

Tears, like drops of liquid crystal, rolled down Newt’s cheeks silently, while the thunder roared above and what little was left of the dandelions withered away and died.

With a heavy weight settling into his belly, Percival looked from the broken heart up to the thundering sky and then at the dead valley all around them – he had done this. Somehow he had destroyed their valley, he had broken Newt’s crystal heart, and again he had hurt Newt. His subconsciousness was to blame, _he_ was to blame, yet again.

“We need to leave this place,” Percival said, grasping Newt by the arm. “I’ll take us elsewhere. Our valley is no longer safe – nightmares have taken over it, at least temporarily.”

He took them into his own bedroom back in his family manor and had a trembling Newt sitting up in front of the fireplace in a nest of blankets and pillows, while he piled up birch wood into the fireplace and lit them up with snap of his finger.

His parents waved at him from the photo on the mantle place – it was a windy day on the beach somewhere in France and mom was holding onto her hat, laughing, while dad was hugging the five-year-old Percival to his chest, on his face that bright grin that lit up his eyes and made him look younger – but there were no paintings anywhere in the room because dad had said “teenage boys needed _privacy_ rather than relatives looking constantly over their shoulder”.

Newt was sniffling quietly, tears were streaming down his face. He had closed his eyes.

“I cannot apologize enough.” There was little else for Percival to say, wasn’t there. “I’m so sorry. I’m… I don’t even know what I have- what I did- And I can’t- _I’m so sorry._ ”

Aware he might not be welcome, Percival took his place cautiously in the nest with Newt, feeling completely useless and more than a little guilty.

“It’ll- It’ll be okay,” he tried feverishly to think of something comforting to say. His wand had vanished like it always did in the dreams when he didn’t need it and so he could put a gentle arm around Newt’s shoulders while holding the broken crystal heart in his free hand. “A heart made out of crystal is beautiful even when it’s broken, really. It’s only a small fracture, Newt, the rest of your heart is still intact.”

“It’s hardly _my_ heart anymore, is it,” Newt’s voice was hoarse. His eyes were still closed like he didn’t want to see, like he was trying to withdraw into the safety of his head. “Most of it is yours, Percival, some parts belong to my family, the rest to creatures and who knows whom else. The first piece of my heart has already been broken, and I suspect you will all end up breaking whatever parts I have given you, sooner or later, until I will only be left with shards and memories as bitter as they are sweet.”

* * *

Newt had been expelled from Hogwarts.

He wouldn’t give Percival details – _“I’m not ready to talk about it. I just… can’t. I’m sorry, love.”_ – but from what little he said, Percival gathered Leta had been illegally in the possession of a creature she had used for some kind of a daring experiment that had ended up failing and endangering the life of a fellow student. Newt, as the most notorious troublemaker and creature-lover at Hogwarts, had been called in for questioning by his professors and – after realizing what must have happened – he had ended up taking the blame for Leta, who hadn’t said a word in his defense. Apparently, she hadn’t even managed to look Newt in the eye when straight up accusing him for the things she had done.

Her betrayal, the end of their friendship, and the whole cruel, unfair ordeal had ended up breaking Newt’s heart. Percival still hadn’t managed to fix it, the broken crystal heart was still on the palm of his hand and he didn’t know what to do about it.

“Tell them you didn’t do it,” he said time and time again, but every time Newt would just shake his head.

“I can’t,” he claimed. “Leta made a terrible mistake, yes, but you don’t know her family, Percival. They aren’t as forgiving as mine or yours. If Leta gets expelled, that’ll be the end of her. They’ll abandon her, they’ll shun her. Her family is powerful and they’ll make sure nothing of her will remain, if she brings such shame onto them.

“And most importantly,” he went on after a moment of hesitation, “I still care about her. She… she deserves a chance at life. If I don’t do this, she won’t have that chance.”

“She’s cowardly and avoids responsibility by allowing you to take the blame for her wrongdoings.” Percival couldn’t stand it when people did that. “Frankly, Newt, you deserve better. Besides, if you will take the blame, she will learn nothing from her mistakes. Consequences, Newt, consequences. She needs to learn her actions have consequences – she can’t get away with this, with using you like this!”

Newt gave Percival a weary, exhausted smile that didn’t reach his eyes and held not an ounce of joy. It looked wrong and twisted on his pretty face and Percival had to stifle a grimace as he lowered his gaze down to the shining crystal heart in his hand.

Broken though it now was, the heart remained beautiful.

Just like Newt.

“That is indeed a lesson Leta is going to have to learn,” Newt sounded as weary as he looked. “I doubt she has yet even fully understood how big of a price she will have to pay – after all, her actions lost her the only friend she ever had.

“A true Slytherin she may be, willing to go ahead by any means necessary – and cowardly she may be, too, as you put it – but she does love me, Percival. I am – was – her best friend, and she does love me and I love her, too, even if my trust in her and the friendship I felt for her shattered along with my heart. Her actions cost her her dearest friend and that is a high price for anyone to pay.

“And while many may take my silence and careful manner for weakness, I am not weak, Percival. I’m strong. My will is strong and I’m adaptable and creative and the expulsion will not be the end of me, not like it would have been the end of Leta. I can still take my N.E.W.T.s at the Ministry even if I’m no longer a-allowed to go to H-Hogwarts. They didn’t break my wand, and although I was given a rather large fine by the authorities, my parents will help me with that, so I won’t need to do penal servitude and can focus on my studies. I _can_ still make something of myself even if I can’t go to school anymore. This isn’t… this isn’t the end of the world.”

He tried to smile, but it fell flat.

* * *

It had to be the stress over the upcoming N.E.W.T. exams. It had to be the stress.

With Newt by his side and the crystal heart safely in his hand, Percival was leaning onto the pillows. With his head resting on Percival’s shoulder, Newt was huddled up close with Percival’s arm wrapped securely around his shoulders. Despite of it all, he still gave the occasional tremble – the coldness he was experiencing was coming from within, after all, and no blanket could warm a frost like that.

“It has to be the stress over the upcoming exams,” Percival repeated his conclusion, this time aloud because Newt deserved to hear the reasons behind it all – he had the right to know how Percival had hurt him this time, what exactly Percival had done to cause him pain and sadness, how Percival had broken his heart – without meaning to, yes, but that was an excuse and Percival made no excuses, especially not for himself.

He was determined to be nothing like that Leta person who avoided responsibilities and allowed innocent parties to take the blame.

“It’s the only thing I can think of,” he admitted, reluctantly. “I must have been feeling more stressed than I realized over the N.E.W.T.s and that stress must have manifested itself here in the dreams by destroying our peaceful valley, and perhaps I have at some point thought of something like, ‘I can’t wait to be done with the N.E.W.T.s so I can leave school soon and become an auror’, or something, and my subconsciousness must have twisted it and decided, ‘ _Newt_ should leave school right now’, and that’s why you were expelled from Hogwarts. I can’t apologize enough, but I will do my best to fix everything. Perhaps I can _un-dream_ this and you can go back to being a Hufflepuff at Hogwarts.”

He felt Newt’s sigh more than heard it. Then there was tugging against his chest when Newt began to play with one of the buttons of his pajamas.

“I do wish you would stop blaming yourself for everything that goes wrong. I chose to take Leta’s punishment, and while that ended our friendship, my expulsion and the end of my friendship with Leta have nothing to do with you, Percival. Absolutely nothing. And _I_ was the one to destroy our dandelion valley with my distress and heartbreak, not you – after all, it was the place of my childhood innocence and with that innocence gone, the valley was bound to change. I’m sorry, I know it was an important place for you, too.”

“We can always dream up new places for us,” Percival promised after a while when Newt didn’t say anything more. “Perhaps even some with dandelions, if you like, and I personally wouldn’t mind a mountain cabin, or a place by a seaside.”

He still blamed himself for it all, but Newt didn’t have to know it.

* * *

“Get over it, Graves.”

Percival gave James a cool look, holding the sketch book with both of his hand.

“But she thought my illustration of knotgrass was a smudge.” Insulted, Percival regarded the drawing with the pride of a wounded artist. He had spent hours sketching it, but Professor Withermore had given him the lowest marks possible for it regardless, informing him with no uncertain terms that while his knowledge of herbs was perfectly acceptable, the assignment had been to “illustrate knotgrass, Mr. Graves, not to waste paper on making smudges”.

“I don’t think it’s _that_ bad, James. It’s actually quite-”

“Face it, Percival,” James cut him off, drily, “you’re crap at drawing. That thing looks nothing like knotgrass or even regular grass. Withermore was kind to call it a ‘smudge’. It looks more like you were just making random lines on a paper to test if there was still ink left in the pen.”

“Does it?”

Percival squinted his eyes and tried to see the illustration from James’ point of view. And okay, perhaps it was a bit… smudgy, after all, if you didn’t know where the knotgrass was supposed to be. Perhaps he should have circled the knotgrass, so Professor Withermore would have known where to look.

With a sigh, he put the illustration among the rest of his papers.

“I suppose I’ll need to practice more.”

He took a fresh paper and a few pens, testing each pen carefully on the paper to see if there was ink in them.

“Or,” said James, slowly, looking on, “you could just focus on your natural talents and forget all about drawing. You don’t need to be perfect, you know. You’re already rich and handsome with good family connections and enough magical talent to become pretty much anything you like. Well, except for an artist, perhaps. You’d never make it in that field.”

“In what field?” asked William, dropping down onto the seat on Percival’s other side. “Also, hello, fools.”

They were in the school library, one of the further corners from the doorway, far enough from everyone their quiet conversation wouldn’t be of bother to anyone.

“Hi, asshole. James here thinks I wouldn’t make it as an artist,” said Percival. “He thinks my illustration looks nothing like knotgrass, and so did Professor Withermore.”

William took a peek at the paper on which Percival had been testing the pens.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said with an easy shrug. “Looks like you’ve managed to capture my essence there perfectly. I like what you’ve done with my eyes, in particular. We’ll make an artist out of you, yet, you’ll see.”

“Hilarious,” said James in his dry manner, but he was clearly trying to hide a smile.

“Seriously though, Percival,” William went on, “James is right: you should stay as far away from drawing as possible. You’re terrible at it. Just stick to magic, is our advice.”

“Mr. Graves.”

The voice of Vice Principal Hopp was instant to silence the three of them. The man had come to stand behind them, unnoticed.

“If you would be as kind as to follow me, Mr. Graves. You have guests waiting for you in Principal Stevens’ office.”

* * *

When Vice Principal Hopp left him in the principal’s office before quietly exiting and closing the door behind him, Percival was surprised to see Mr. Cunningham there by the principal's desk waiting for him along with Uncle Frank, whose one eye had such a serious look in it Percival wanted to instantly turn away and run, run so fast they wouldn’t catch him, run so fast whatever they wanted to tell him would never reach his ears.

This couldn’t be good. He could tell. It wasn’t good. It couldn’t be good.

He didn’t want to hear it, whatever it would be.

“Mr. Graves,” said Principal Stevens and offered Percival a tense smile. “Please, take a seat.”

Looking warily from Uncle Frank to the ever so stiff Mr. Cunningham, Percival did as he was told, slowly, reluctantly as if he could avoid whatever this was about if he only did everything as slowly as possible.

Once he was seated in front of Principal Stevens’ large desk, Mr. Cunningham put a hand on his shoulder and held onto it, firmly, like he was trying to offer silent support.

The fifth person in the room stepped forward. She was a tall witch, taller even than Mr. Cunningham, with wide shoulders and thin lips.

“My name is Arigna Tors, I am Head of Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” she informed him, tersely, “and I’m very sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Frankly, there is no easy way to put this, Mr. Graves, but some two hours ago your parents were found murdered in Saint Paul, Minnesota.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading as well as for all the comments&kudos!
> 
> Your comments fed my muse and I ended up writing an update, a sad one, this time, yes, but I hope you're still with me - and more importantly, with Percival and Newt.


	8. Coping

Newt’s eyes widened when Percival pushed him down onto the bed by way of greeting.

“You’re going nowhere.”

Now that their valley was filled with nightmares, they were spending the dreams at the Graves manor, more often than not. This dream, they were in Percival’s bedroom – on his bed, to be precise, and Percival was _seething_ because anger was easier to deal with than grief.

“ _Nowhere_ , you hear?”

He could have pinned Newt easily down with his weight alone, but that wasn’t enough, no, it just wasn’t enough, and so he grasped the wrists and held onto them, tightly.

“Percival?” Newt sounded worried, of all things. “Darling, what’s the matter? What has happened?”

Percival gritted his teeth and glared down at the round blue eyes that shone with concern and compassion.

He knew how to deal with anger. Anger he could manage. Anger was doable.

“I’m angry.”

“I can see that, but wh-“

“Can I fuck you?”

Newt blinked, the tips of his ears turning bright red.

“No,” he said, finally. “Not like this.”

Percival accepted that.

“Can I grind against you, a little?”

Newt was quiet for a long moment, seeming to consider, and despite of his burning anger, Percival waited patiently – he had morals even in his grief, even in his dreams, and if Newt said no, that would be it, a dream character or not.

“Yes,” was Newt’s eventual decision. “Yes, you can. Unless you would rather discuss whatever is in your mind because I can see you’re-“

“I’m _angry_ , nothing else.”

“As you say, love, but you’re shaking, and-“

Newt cut himself off with a moan when Percival ground against him.

Percival ground again, and again, and again, the pleasure of it nearing pain, and under him Newt’s face turned pink and flushed and he kept making high noises Percival hadn’t heard from him before but which brought over him an almost feverish heat that manifested itself as a need to move, to grind, to make Newt make those noises again and again.

Newt smelt of vanilla tea, and tasted like vanilla, too, when Percival, a bit clumsily – he hadn’t done this before – did his best to devour him.

The bed was creaking, and Newt – with his arms now stretched up above his head where they were pinned – was moaning and whimpering and wrapping his pajama-clad legs around Percival to grant him better access.

“You’re going nowhere, I said,” Percival hissed when he pulled his mouth away from the pliant mouth for long enough to take deep, shaky breaths. “You’re going nowhere! You’re not leaving me like mom and dad. You can’t! You’re not going to die too!”

His vision kept going foggy and he blinked to clear it, angrily, tightening his hold on Newt’s wrists, as he thrusted down to emphasize his words. Drops of his sweat were falling down below onto Newt’s face, one after another, and his chest felt so tight his breathing became ragged, uneven, and it wasn’t until he heard Newt saying, “Oh, Percival – your parents? I’m so sorry,” in a soft, sorrowful voice that he realized they weren’t sweat drops on Newt’s face after all but tears and that his breathing was ragged because he was sobbing.

He was crying, he was crying on Newt.

Not even passion and anger were enough to shelter him from the grief and loss he was trying to hide from in his dream.

“You’re going nowhere,” he said again and this time it came out as a vulnerable plea, the anger withering away with his erection. “You hear me, Newt? _You’re going nowhere._ You can’t.”

At some point, he had let go of Newt’s wrists and his face was now pressed against the soft of Newt’s belly while his fists were grasping Newt’s pajama top as desperately as his pleas were frantic,

“I’m not letting you go. You can’t go. I’m not letting you leave. Please, Newt, please don’t go. Don’t leave me. Don’t. Don’t go. Stay with me. I want you to stay. Please stay. Don’t die.”

Newt was running a gentle hand through his hair, over and over again, and saying soothing words Percival couldn’t really comprehend, not then, but he heard the tone of his voice, the sadness of it, the empathy in it, the love it was filled with, and he hid his face in Newt’s belly like that act alone would hide them both from death and the world and everything between.

Newt kept talking and Percival felt the words resonating in Newt’s belly even if there was a buzzing in his ears that prevented him from comprehending their meaning. Trembling, he held onto Newt like he was an anchor, the only thing preventing him from drifting away into nothingness.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered into the cotton of the pajama top, as the tender hand combed through his hair. “Not you, too.”

* * *

“Don’t let anyone talk to you about finances, Mr. Graves,” Mr. Cunningham told him on the morning of the funeral, adjusting Percival’s tie with a deep wrinkle between his greying brows. “If someone tries to, just tell them they’ll hear about your decisions in time. Say nothing more, _and don’t sign anything_.”

It turned out, Mr. Cunningham’s advice was of use since Percival was approached by seven different wizards and five different witches before, during and after the funeral about the stocks his parents had owned. They wanted to know whether he would be willing to sell them, and since he hadn’t even known his parents had owned stocks, it was a good thing he had Mr. Cunningham’s answer ready on his lips and he didn’t therefore need to try to fumble for one on his own.

* * *

When he was given a few moments alone with his parents before the funeral, Percival put woolly socks on their feet.

He of course knew his parents weren’t alive, but he still couldn’t get over the thought of their toes getting cold underground. Mom had always had poor circulation, after all, and it felt like they should be wearing socks to their graves.

Graves – what a suitable name for his family when soon nothing of it would remain but graves.

 _It’s like a curse_ , mom had said. _The Graves don’t live old enough to retire._

Like a curse. That’s what it did feel like, too, and as the murderer’s identity remained a mystery, Percival didn’t even have closure.

No-one knew why mom and dad had been in Minnesota, let alone who had murdered them, but according to Uncle Frank, they had been killed from behind – they had never had the time to defend themselves.

The murderer had left the bodies in clear view in the middle of a no-maj street, but had obliviated any possible witnesses. On mom’s forehead, a message had been written in blue ink:

> Sorry. My bad. Murder is so rude.

Now, the ink was no longer there and mom’s forehead remained as smooth and pale as always. Percival kissed it. The skin was cold, and his hands clenched into fists.

“Bye, mom.”

Mom had been so much more petite than Percival had realized. Her coffin looked small next to dad’s. 

He avoided looking at his father’s face, so similar to his own. He just… couldn’t. He couldn’t. Dad would have understood. Instead, Percival slipped dad’s glasses into the coffin. Dad might not need them, but he was always forgetting them everywhere and they should- they should go with him. So he wouldn’t forget them anymore.

“Bye, old man.”

He stood there wordlessly between the two coffins until Tilly knocked on the door and told him through it it was “almost the time, Master Percival”.

Breathing deeply, Percival blinked the tears from his eyes. He was now the sole representative of his family. He needed to bear the responsibility with honor.

Before pushing the door open, fingers already on the handle, he looked one last time at his parents over his shoulder and whispered,

“Thank you. For everything.”

* * *

Despite of their repeated complaints, the press wasn’t allowed in to the funeral hall – not that they would have fit in either had they tried to enter without permission, not with all the aurors and relatives and family friends. The funeral of Emilia and Alexander Graves was a major event, and not only because their murder remained a mystery – Percival’s parents had been well respected, and even more than that, they had been loved by many. The coffins were now barely visible from under all the mourning bouquets.

Mr. Cunningham, Mr. Williams, Uncle Charles and Aunt Jocelyn were there, of course, as were many more familiar faces his parents had worked with.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Oxford,” Percival greeted the auror with a handshake.

“Mr. Oxford?” The look in the one eye sharpened in annoyance. “Since when have I ever been a _Mr. Oxford_ to you, boy? Don’t start going cheeky with me like your father, may he rest in peace. I’ve been Uncle Frank to you since you were born and Uncle Frank I shall remain.”

The Otterfields were among the first to arrive, and William gave Percival an awkward pat in the back (“James is really sorry he couldn’t come”), while Mrs. Otterfield pulled him into a tight hug and Mr. Otterfield offered him a few grave words about how life was unfair and cruel and so truly unpredictable.

“If you need anything, my dear boy,” Mrs. Otterfield said, wiping away a tear with the white handkerchief Percival offered her, “do not hesitate to come to us.”

“Our door is always open,” Mr. Otterfield agreed.

“Or just Floo,” suggested William. “Don’t need to even use the door.”

Many of the Moreaus had come to New York all the way from Bordeaux, uncles and aunts who refused to speak English and cousins Percival recalled only vaguely from childhood summers spent in France. A few of dad’s second cousins had come to pay their respects and they all shook hands with Percival with the similar carefully polite expressions Percival had been in the receiving end of since the tragedy of his parents had become known.

Still, as the sole representative of his family, he made an effort to behave accordingly, and so – with Tilly by his side – he shook hands and thanked people for coming, even if he didn’t know who they were or how they had known his parents or even whether his parents would have wanted them to be there.

Arigna Tors Percival greeted with a firm shake of a hand – he didn’t much like her, a messenger of bad news as she had been, but she was there in the capacity of Head of Department because of the loss of two fine aurors and he could respect that.

“I was prepared to feel uncomfortable in the face of your grief, Mr. Graves,” Tors told him when they shook hands. “Frankly, due to your young age, I had expected you to have a more childish approach to the passing of Senior Aurors Graves and Graves, but your maturity has surprised me pleasantly. I can’t stand people who sob.”

Letting go of her hand, Percival offered her a dry smile – if she only knew he spent his dreams by sobbing into the lap of his dream friend.

(If only his dream friend could have now been there by his side.)

“May I expect you to apply to our Auror Training Program come August?”

“Most likely, ma’am, yes, presuming my N.E.W.T. results will be acceptable.”

“Well,” she said, looking at him up and down, calculatingly, “I will expect a lot from a Graves, so do not think you will be let off easy because of the unfortunate personal circumstances.”

He offered her another dry smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

* * *

As the only heir, Percival inherited everything, _everything_ , and suddenly he was among the top three richest wizards in the whole continent. Overwhelmed, he asked Mr. Cunningham – whom he trusted nearly as much as he had trusted his parents – to help him with the finances.

It was a testament of how much Mr. Cunningham had grown to care about him over the years that he eventually agreed, even though he did grumble about being “a teacher of finer subjects, not a materialistic _banker_ ” – a banker though he might not have been, but he was competent when it came to money and dedicated when it came to Percival’s well-being, and so he vowed to make it his business to become an exceptional finance manager.

“I will have the Sunday afternoons free, so I can go for a walk,” was his only demand, although Percival did give him a considerable raise, too.

* * *

He kept thinking he couldn’t possibly have any more tears left, but they just kept on coming. Newt didn’t comment on it even when Percival’s tears left wet spots on his pajamas.

Still, he couldn’t weep the rest of his dreams, and so one dream, when Newt happened to mention he was having trouble with a few Transfiguration Spells he needed to learn by December when someone from the Ministry would come to oversee his progress, Percival jumped at the opportunity to be of help.

They ended up training in the dreams. Percival would first teach and demonstrate one spell or another, Newt would observe quietly and then try on his own. Percival guided and advised when needed, but Newt was quick, both body and mind, and more importantly, he was stubborn as a bull and persistent enough to try the same spell time and time again until improvement could be noted.

And when he finally got a spell just right, or managed a new charm, he would turn a pair of twinkling blue eyes towards Percival, say in his shy manner something like, “Like that?” and then Percival would say, “Just like that,” and they would notice how close they were standing, and – before Percival knew it – Newt was in his arms and they were kissing with such heated desperation it was like they needed it to feel alive.

* * *

With seven Outstanding N.E.W.T.s and with an E at Herbology (his illustrations had brought the grade down), Percival was accepted into the Auror Training Program.

“James and I will found a broom company in Arizona,” said William when he told his friends about it over drinks. “You can join us, if you like.”

“You can,” agreed James, easily, “although our company will focus on _broom equipment_ and _flying clothes_ , not brooms.”

“Close enough,” said William, grinning, with a shrug. “Anything to do with brooms and I’m in. I love brooms. But how about it, Percy – you in?”

Percival refused, politely, and no-one was surprised – he had always wanted to become an auror, after all, and they all knew that, and now that his parents’ murder remained unsolved, nothing would keep him from pursuing a career in Magical Law Enforcement, not even his mother’s request that he should become an engineer instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for leaving me a comment after the last sad chapter!
> 
> I'm going to be doing some travelling next week, so I might not have the time to update, but as always, if you've enjoyed the fic so far or would like for the story to continue, please do let me know. :)


	9. Olivers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for some sex and sexual content.

Newt didn’t complain, but Percival could tell it hurt when he pushed the third finger in.

”Perhaps you should use more lube,” came the meek suggestion and Percival hastened to do just that, even if he was having trouble thinking straight with Newt laid there bare before him, with Newt’s thighs spread apart and his ass raised up in offering.

The sight of it, the smells, their fast breathing, skin against skin – it was all almost too much already as it was.

Minutes later, Newt whimpered and grasped the sheets when Percival pushed in. The tight heat of Newt’s body felt amazing, and Percival only lasted for a few desperate shoves, emptying himself as deep as he could with a groan, Newt pliant under him.

”I’d like to go again,” Percival said soon after, eagerly, heart still racing, once his panting had subsided some and he had rolled off of Newt, feeling oddly proud of himself and even more protective of Newt than usual.

What little of Newt’s face was visible from the pillow was flushed and perspiring like he had been exercising – in a way, he had been, too.

”I don’t think I can, this dream,” his voice was muffled. ”I’m… pretty sore already.”

Percival felt instantly guilty. He began to rub soothing circles in Newt’s lower back and leant closer to kiss the sweaty temple.

”My dad taught me a lubrication spell. I forgot, but I’ll use it, the next time,” he promised. ”I’ll get better at this.”

Newt’s lips spread into a tender smile.

”I know you will, love. I just need to get used to it, is all. This is all so new, still, and I hadn’t really put anything in _there_ before.”

* * *

” _Fuck._ ”

The Flaming Hex had come from his left while he had been defending his right and so it had taken him off guard, hitting against his side with a flare so hot he had staggered and would have dropped onto his knees had it not been for his instinctive magic reacting instantly and balancing him like the invisible hand of a dependable friend.

”Fuck,” Percival said again through gritted teeth, peeled his short-sleeved exercise shirt off his perspiring skin to peek inside – there were now ugly yellowish, leaking blisters on his skin where the hex had hit him – and blinked to clear his vision clouded by the pain.

” _Coolius Healenderia,_ ” he used the spell to heal his blistered side and added, just in case, ” _Alous Verous._ ”

Grasping his wand tightly, he let his shirt fall back in place – the pain and the blisters were now gone – and cast a wandless Telescope Spell to see what was happening on the other side of the pillar behind which he had apparated to take cover when he had been hit. He needed to assess the situation before getting back to the fighting.

Smith was dueling with someone wearing a black mask, and Warner and Malcolm were hiding behind the boxes to avoid getting hit by the hexes coming sharp and sure their way. They looked annoyed, Malcolm seemed ready to jump out of his hiding place at any given moment, halted only by the unrelenting shower of hexes flying over and around him.

They were losing. It was their first fight and his team was losing.

”Unbelievable! For Morgana’s sake, Graves!”

With a hissing sound, Senior Auror Jocelyn ”Unbelievable” Andrews had apparated next to him in her bright, illuminated red cloak which was supposed to emphasize her role as the observer but which Percival now feared might give away his location – she didn’t seem to care about his concerns and instead grasped him by the arm. She was a short, plump black woman and her brown eyes shot sharp arrows up at him from where she stood good seventeen inches shorter than him.

”That was a Flaming Hex that just hit you, trainee, wasn’t it?” she demanded, her short stature affecting her authority and commanding manner none, and he gave a quick affirmative since lying to his superior was not an option.

Her expression darkened.

”You were just hit by a Flaming Hex and you’re just standing around? What In Lewis’ name are you still doing here? Unbelievable!”

Embarrassed, Percival gave a terse nod – he was doing his team no favors cowering behind a pillar – and quickly evaluated the situation with the help of the Telescope Spell.

Smith was losing his duel – his opponent seemed to be toying with him by now – and Warner and Malcolm were still taking cover behind the boxes. The hexes seemed to be coming from three different spots: from up in the balcony-like structure, behind one of the columns and behind a no-maj vehicle called a tractor.

The one in the balcony could observe everything from above, they had that advantage, Percival concluded, and so they needed to be made harmless, first.

”What are you waiting for? Unbelievable! Move your ass now, trainee!”

”Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to Jocelyn, inclining his head respectfully – before apparating up into the balcony.

It turned out to be the best approach possible, for he now found himself standing behind a wide-shouldered wizard who was lying there on his belly, shooting hexes down into the warehouse with his face covered with a black mask. Percival wasted not a moment to disarm him with a wave of his hand. The wand flew out of the man’s hand, and before he could do more than flip his head around to look up at Percival with bright blue eyes peeking from behind the mask, Percival had already tied him up and put a gag in his mouth to prevent him from calling out.

”You’re under arrest,” Percival informed him, calmly. ”I am Auror Trainee Graves. The more you struggle, the more the ropes will tighten up, so I suggest you keep still as to make yourself as comfortable as possible and to prevent injury. Now, if you excuse me, I must continue the operation.”

He left the man up there in the balcony and moved then onto the one fighting from behind the tractor.

By the time he had tied up three of the four criminals, his team mates had managed to join in on the fighting and together they brought down the witch who had been dueling against Smith. It only took them a few minutes now that the wizard up in the balcony was no longer there to fight them.

With the exercise done and over with, they released their opponents, the four last year auror trainees who had been made to fight them. They all shook hands, jovially.

”Well done,” said the blue-eyed wizard whom Percival had found and left in the balcony some minutes earlier. He had removed the mask to reveal the kind of a face that seemed like it was made as a canvas for a smile, dimples, faint laugh wrinkles around the sparkling eyes. Pretty good-looking, Percival decided, even if he preferred them leaner – freckles on pale skin wouldn’t have hurt any either, even if the tan looked nice, too.

”Not bad for first year trainees,” the blue eyes mused, finally letting go of Percival’ hand. ”I’m actually surprised you managed to beat us – usually the first year trainees end up losing. Graves, was it? I’m Nathan Olivers. I’m pleased we’re on the same side. I have a feeling you would be… a challenging criminal.”

If Olivers looked impressed, Jocelyn Andrews looked like she was smelling a troll when she apparated beside them, a finger already pointed straight at Percival. She might have been his godmother and one of his mother’s closest friends but that didn’t mean she was going easy on him – the exact opposite, actually.

”You! Are you out of your mind, Graves!” was not a question because she seemed to have made her mind up on the subject already. ”A Flaming Hex hit you (no-one should have even been using that hex, it’s not permitted during the exercises – I’ll find out who cast it and there _will_ be consequences), and instead of going to the healers, you _resumed fighting_! Report to Healer Berryhill this instant. I do not want to see you again until you have been cleared. Unbelievable!”

* * *

”Kicked the asses of the last year trainees?” Uncle Frank hummed, pouring Percival more coffee. ”That would have made Alexander proud. When you first went to Ilvermorny, he wouldn’t shut up about how you had kicked some teacher’s ass on your first week there. For weeks after, we heard about nothing but how talented a dueler his son would one day be.”

Percival’s chest felt tight.

He hadn’t known dad had been proud of him for that. Nonetheless, he still felt guilty about hurting Professor Butterfield, even more so now, as she had ended up being his favorite professor.

* * *

Olivers – or rather, a dream version of him – was standing there on the deck with the toned sun kissed body completely nude, while Newt had crossed his hands on his chest and kept on regarding the man from behind his curly fringe, sourly. He looked like he might have perhaps wanted to push Olivers into the gleaming river.

Percival was sitting back on his sun chair with his arms behind his head, admiring the view.

They would have looked hot together, Newt and Olivers. He wouldn’t have minded watching, had hoped he might get the chance to, but it seemed like there would be none of that, as Newt raised his nose up towards the sky and said,

”The muscles are a bit too much, don’t you think.”

With another sniff and a sour glance sent in Olivers’ way, Newt climbed up to sit on Percival. When he put a hand on Percival’s groin in the midst of kissing and gave a squeeze, it was almost like he was trying to make some kind of a point, but Percival was too occupied with his want to think about it more closely.

That dream, he came with Newt’s hand down in his pajamas, gasping in the crook of Newt’s neck, while Olivers smiled at him over Newt’s shoulder from where he was standing with his arms akimbo and bare legs apart.

”I’d rather you didn’t dream him up again when I’m present,” said Newt, wiping his hand clean on his top, having followed Percival’s gaze. ”He might be a nice fellow in the waking world and I have said before that I understand, if you want to be with others when you’re awake, but I’d appreciate it, if you didn’t bring them here with you. I… prefer it when it’s just you and me. ”

* * *

Newt still always grimaced when Percival pushed himself in, but perhaps it was starting to get better for him, too, because he managed to stay relaxed, more often than not, and Percival didn’t hold back his praises. Newt was amazing, and because he had trouble orgasming during the penetration, Percival took care of him beforehand.

Sated and looking up at Percival with love shining in his eyes, Newt spread his legs with determination before Percival so much as had the time to request it.

”Let me know how much you want me, Percival,” was a request more so than flirting. ”Don’t hold back any. I want to look at you when my body undoes you.”

* * *

Over the next three years, Percival worked hard to become an auror. It took most of his time and, on occasion, disturbed his sleeping rhythm to the degree he stopped dreaming about Newt for some time, much to his displeasure.

”It’s because of the time zones,” Newt would claim whenever they would manage to meet. ”You sleep when it’s a day here in England and when I’m therefore awake. That’s why we’re not always sharing dreams.”

His subconsciouness was even taking the time zones into account when coming up with his dreams? Percival couldn’t help but be reluctantly impressed with himself, even though he felt lonely with no Newt there in his dreams.

The lack of Newt in his dreams made him lonely in the waking world, too. His heart had no spark without Newt and that made everything duller, more grey, miserable.

He missed Newt even in the waking world. It was a void nothing could fulfill.

* * *

Initially it was the loneliness that had Percival responding to Olivers’ flirting. With his dream friend missing, everything felt emptier and Olivers was a chance to try to make things a bit brighter, at least momentarily.

The first time they fucked, it was a Wednesday – Percival remembered little else about it later.

* * *

As time went on, it became a bit of an occasional habit – more occasional than a habit, granted – for Percival and Olivers to have sex whenever one of them suggested it. During the years Percival spent in auror training, he fucked Olivers several times, although it wasn’t anything serious and they both knew it. They never even planned on to have sex beforehand, but a suggestive look or a wink could change the course of the evening and Percival would find himself deep in a toned ass or getting himself sucked off against a wall.

Olivers was great at giving head and surprisingly submissive when he was bent over a shelf in the small storage room filled with brooms and buckets and forgotten charms, but in the addition of lust, the sight of him awoke in Percival deep longing for his dream boyfriend – if only his beloved dream character could have been there with him instead. No-one in the waking world could compare, madness though that clearly was.

”All yours, Trainee Auror Graves,” Olivers said, unaware of Percival’s longing for another, looking at Percival over his shoulder with a look that was perhaps supposed to be coy but which ended up being teasing instead. ”Show me who’s in control like you did when we first met. Those olive eyes of yours drive me crazy.”

Crazy, indeed. Percival, too, was clearly on his way to insanity, although for different reasons completely.

* * *

”Olive eyes?” sniffed Newt in an uncharacteristically haughty manner. ”He couldn’t think of anything more suitable than _olives_ to describe the warmth and intelligence in your stunning eyes? Does he even know you can’t stand olives?”

* * *

It bothered Percival, the way his dream character disapproved of his relationship with Olivers. It _shouldn’t have_ , and when Olivers moaned under him and asked for ”more, faster, just like that”, Percival gritted his teeth and reminded himself the dream character was NOT real and his feelings and opinions shouldn’t therefore have mattered.

It would have been utter madness to let his imagination and dreams to dictate him when he was awake, but when he fell asleep in Olivers’ bed and found himself in the dreamworld only for his dreamfriend to say, all quietly, that he could hear Olivers’ snoring – ”I thought you were just having sex, but now you’re sleeping in the same bed? Are you attempting to share dreams with _him_ , to dream about _him_ , again? – Percival ended up telling Olivers the next morning it was the time for them to stop it, whatever it was that was there between them.

He ended up confessing to Olivers his heart belonged to someone else, someone he could never have, and that he couldn’t in good conscience continue to have sex with Olivers because it wasn’t fair to anyone, least of all to Olivers.

Olivers shrugged and patted his bare shoulder.

”Their loss,” he said, lighting up a cigarette with his wand. ”I’m not trying to get to your heart, though. You know that, right? I’m interested mostly in other parts of you. I mean, _Graves_ , we’re still not even on first-name basis. Nonetheless, it was fun while it lasted. If you’ll ever end up changing your mind, make sure to let me know. You’re great at fucking.”

They shook hands, jovially, like they had done when they had first met and from then on, they behaved perfectly professionally towards one another.

Because it truly would have been utter madness had he stopped having sex with a good-looking wizard only because it upset a character in his dreams, Percival tried to convince himself there had been something wrong with the sex, with Olivers, if his subconscious mind was so against it as for his dream character to get jealous, but the truth was, the sex had been fine and Olivers really was as pleasant as he looked like.

They could have made it work - had they wanted to.

* * *

If he had expected Newt to be pleased he was no longer seeing Olivers in anything but professional capacity, Newt wasn’t, based on his downcast eyes and the way he was biting his lip.

”You shouldn’t have given him up because of me,” was said in a voice even meeker than usual. ”I didn’t mean for you to do that. I shouldn’t have been jealous, I’m sorry – Olivers must have been a lovely man, and I just want you to be happy, Percival, truly. Perhaps it’s not yet too late, perhaps you can still get him back, if you-”

It was insane to be in love with an imaginary character, but simultaneously, it was so wonderful Percival wanted little else than to spend the rest of his life by dreaming, if it meant he could always be with Newt – and that right there was insanity.

His feelings were truly a confusing bunch when Newt was concerned, but when he had put an end to his thing with Olivers, he had hoped Newt would- would-

What, exactly?

Newt didn’t even exist.

”I just can’t do anything right by you, can I.”

Percival didn’t say that angrily, he just felt resigned, but it still made Newt flinch.

”I never asked you to give Olivers up.”

”Yet his presence in our life was making you miserable.”

”Don’t try to make this about me.”

Newt was now obviously avoiding eye contact which meant he was growing angry.

Percival ran a hand over his mouth before pinching the bridge of his nose. He, too, was getting mad. Jealousy he understood, and if Newt had suddenly had a boyfriend other than him, Percival could have hardly managed to be fine with that, but he had _given up_ sex with Olivers and Newt had the gall to get mad about _that_?

”To me, everything _is_ about you.”

”Nothing-” and now Newt _sounded_ angry, too, ” _nothing_ is about me, to you – you don’t even believe I exist!”

It was Percival’s turn to flinch.

”If you ask it of me, Newton, I’ll cast a spell on me, one that will make me sleep till my days are numbered. It will keep my body alive but frozen in a sleeping state. Like that, we could always be together. Ask it of me and I’ll do it. Just say the word.”

It was a horrifying promise, but he realized he meant every word – he had gone crazy, for Newt.

”I want to be with you always. I don’t want to wake up from our dreams; _I love_ -”

He didn’t expect to get slapped, but slap him Newt did, and it froze them both to the spot. Newt looked as startled by the unexpected violence as Percival felt. Slowly, as Newt lowered his hand, Percival raised his up to his stinging cheek, while the sudden silence between them was only broken by their heavy breathing.

Newt was shaking and it was hard to tell if it was out of anger – or fear.

”I apologize for hitting you,” his voice was shaking too, "but don't you dare. _Don’t you dare_ do that to yourself, Percival! You gave up a lover because of me, but I will never forgive either one of us, if you give up the waking world, too. You are meant to be wonderful, you are meant to live – not to waste slowly away in the state of forced sleep.”

With Newt's voice echoing in his mind, Percival woke up in the bullpen with Smith shaking him awake in the middle of the night.

”Your turn to be on call, Graves. Have fun.”

With the notebook and the pen already in his hand, Percival stared at the empty first page of his notebook. He still couldn’t recall the name of the man who held his heart on the palm of his hand.

Not that it mattered because the love of his life

didn’t exist.

* * *

”Well,” said Senior Auror Nottingham, studying the sketch of the suspect with raised eyebrows, ”you truly are exemplary at everything, Auror Trainee Graves! The assignment was to draw as realistic a sketch of the suspect as possible and I will be using this sketch made by you in my future classes as the perfect example – on how to _not_ draw anything, let alone a sketch of a suspect. You’d never make it as a auror sketch artist. This is the worst sketch I have ever seen. I would suspect this to be a joke, if you had any sense of humor whatsoever.”

The word spread around quickly: a flaw had been found in Percival Graves – he was not perfect at everything relating to magical law enforcement after all – he couldn’t sketch suspects! This made a lot of the other auror trainees delighted, as he made even the best ones among them look something between incompetent and average, in comparison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for being so wonderful and for having read this far! Thank you also for your kind comments. They make me blush and grin like the idiot I am.
> 
> I hadn't intended on updating any new chapters this week, but one of the comments on chapter eight saddened me and I wanted to react to it by writing an update - this chapter is for you, SlightlyDerangedVermillion.


End file.
